


No Rest

by captain_tots



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, First Person Narrative, Multi, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Quantum Organization, child prostitution, dub con, non con, sex trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ON HIATUS. TO BE CONTINUED.</p><p>Sévérine is barely sixteen when she meets Raoul Silva, who offers her an escape from her life of slavery. But, she soon learns that Silva's kindness comes at a price, as she finds herself sucked into a deadly criminal enterprise, and in love with a man who is seeking revenge above all else.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Waste Land

**Author's Note:**

>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _PLEASE NOTE:_** This story contains depictions of child prostitution, non consensual sex acts, sexual assault, underage, relationship abuse, and victim blaming.
> 
> My depiction of the Macau sex trade is fictionalized and is not meant to be taken as fact. The reality is much worse.
> 
> As someone who spends too much time thinking about media, specifically the way female character's are treated in media, I'm trying very hard to avoid the trap of writing a story about nothing more than " _a helpless girl meets a sexy and dangerous man who saves her from her mundane life and subsequently falls in love, despite his constant threats on her safety,_ " because then, let's face it, I would be writing Twilight.  
> What I hope to convey with Sévérine's story is that she is a strong, but severely damaged young woman who feels affection towards Silva because they can relate to each other, and that she continues to feel this way towards him for some time because she doesn't know what it's like to be loved. I wanted to flesh her out beyond what we saw on screen, and make her someone real and sympathetic, not just an object of affection for the two dueling main characters.

* * *

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

_(The Waste Land, TS Eliot)_

* * *

Chapter One.  
The asking price for a twelve year old English speaking virgin in Macau, China in 1998 was two thousand, five-hundred dollars. At the time, it seemed like an incredible amount of money. The first time I watched Him whisk away that same sum with a flash of gold plastic, I began to realize just how little my life had been valued.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

In the past twenty-seven or so years, I've been a whore and a queen, the right hand woman, an assassin and a thief, cast out and loved again in the same breath. Yet, I've never been a daughter, a wife, or a mother.

I suppose you wouldn't believe me unless I started from the beginning.

* * *

I won't bore you with the exhaustive details of my upbringing; all you really need to know is that I was born of the unholy union of a Slovak prostitute and a Chinese businessman, reared in an orphanage where I was unceremoniously christened “Xui Li “, and subsequently sold to a brothel at the age of seven, where I was put to work cleaning linens and scrubbing floors. Given my station in life, I suppose that my circumstances could have been far worse. The brothel was at the very least a building in it's own right, not the back room of a budget hotel or a shack with a mud floor.

My memories of the brothel are more fond than you might imagine; I remember the girls in their bathrobes, combing out their hair and singing songs in soft, hazy voices. The girls employed as prostitutes were hardly older than myself, but I always regarded them with a sort of wide-eyed respect, as they seemed wise beyond my very comprehension. I did not know what it was they did in their rooms with the ever present stern faced men clad in dark suits. They seemed as though they wanted to protect me from the cruel reality of the future which was waiting for me, because while my entire life was the result of the sex trade, I hadn't an idea what sex entailed.

We spoke Mandarin among ourselves, but the girls often spoke in English with our guests, who were said to be of a higher caliber than the sort of man who would prey upon a curbside hooker. Truthfully, we catered to low level businessmen from the States and Europe who wanted a bar room story to brag about.

In advertisement, our brothel was referred to as a massage parlor, because we didn't have the hot tub necessitated by a sauna, I suppose. It was a clean, yet cheerless two story building wedged between a restaurant and a gold pawning exchange. The downstairs lobby was tastelessly decorated with plastic plants and sputtering little fountain which was in a constant state of disrepair. Beyond this was my world: the kitchen, the wash room, the office. Upstairs were the guest rooms, where I was only permitted when cleaning.

The owner of the brothel owed a sizable debt to an affluent pimp. From what I understood, the pimp owned a hotel, which employed a staff of hundreds: cleaning ladies, cooks, bellhops, and of course, courtesans—an absurd euphemism. This pimp would occasionally come down to our brothel in a huff and demand his payment. The brothel owner would protest that he did not have the money, threats would be made, occasionally something was thrown or overturned, and then life continued as usual.

Or it did, until the spring of 1997.

* * *

  
**April, 1997.**

We were closed for business, the door locked. It was the first time I could ever remember being closed—there was always money to be made. Stranger still, the girls were lined up like cattle in the lobby, ankles pressed hard against the wall. The pimp from the hotel—his name was Vasco Cortês—was seated beside our brothel owner, starring the girls up and down. Mr. Cortês wasn't a terribly unattractive man: he had deeply tanned skin, a thin mustache, and crinkles around his eyes. His face would have seemed almost kind—had he not been in the act of appraising a room full of teenage prostitutes. He spoke to the owner in a throaty accented English.

“None of these girls will do. Look at them. They're worn out. None of my guests want to see a woman visited hundreds of times.”

I had been walking down the hallway adjacent to lobby, carrying a basket of towels to be taken up to the guests rooms.

“Xui Li! Come here,” the brothel owner called, gesturing for me. To this day, I do not remember what his name was. I rarely spoke to him, as I knew my duties well enough that his interference was not required. He was a slightly pudgy man, with black hair slick against his skull and features set deeply into his face. He wore threadbare Western style suits and scuffed black shoes with ill matching ties.

I was so startled by the sudden interruption that I dropped the basket on my toes. Towels went flying, and I fell to my knees to gather them off the floor.

“Don't bother with those, come here, girl!” He was growing impatient.

I jumped off the floor and scuttled off into the lobby, standing a few feet past the open doorway.

The owner turned to Cortês and flashed him an uneasy smile.

“See this girl? She has just had her first cycle.” My face burnt at the public acknowledgment of something which seemed so intimate. “She has never been seen by a man before, and she speaks English.”

Cortês' sullen expression lifted. He gestured to me with a single finger.

“Ah, come here, girl.” His voice was low and silky, almost a purr.

Hesitant, I took a few tentative steps towards the man.

“I need to see you closer.”

I walked right up to him, until I could feel his sticky hot breath in my face.

“She is a beauty,” he commented, as if I wasn't even present.

“And she's a virgin, sir!” the owner chimed in, nervous and rushed.

“Yes. I heard you the first time.”

My breathing slowed to almost a halt as Cortês ran his fingers over my face. I knew then, that I was going to be sold. His fingers were clammy and cold against my skin, but I did not flinch. This was perhaps my saving grace, that I could remain perfectly still while touched by a stranger. He smiled with all his teeth showing.

“We will work out the terms of the sale,” he finally spoke, pulling his hand away.

The owner breathed out a sigh of relief, which did not go unnoticed by Cortês, who smirked slightly.

“You are dismissed, Xui Li,” the owner said.

My face was very hot, and tears were beginning to well up behind my eyes. I did not cry. I had learned in the orphanage that crying only made things worse. Instead, I held my head high and walked away slowly, taking enough time to overhear the first of their negotiations.

“A thousand dollars is a pittance! I can sell her virginity for at least two-thousand!”

* * *

After the encounter with Cortês, I busied myself washing bed sheets in the laundry room, while crying very softly. I knew how to let tears fall without making a sound to draw attention to myself.I didn't want to leave the brothel, didn't want to leave the girls who treated me like a little sister; I didn't want to do anything more but wash sheets for the rest of my life. And yet, I knew that it was inevitable that one day I would stop being Xui Li and become another one of the girls, with a number pinned to my bra for a guest to pick me out of a line up.

I was still just a child. I didn't expect to meet my fate so soon.

I channeled my frustration into the sheets, scrubbing out the stains in a fury. I was crying more heavily now. I wasn’t even unhappy about the thought of being sold--though I didn’t fully understand it--I was simply unhappy to be leaving the place I thought of as my home.

Behind me, there was a light knock on the door.

“Come in,” I called over my shoulder.

It was Mei, one of the older girls. She looked sleepy, with her long straight hair in a messy bun and dark circles under her eyes.

“You’ve been crying,” she said without a trace of sympathy. “You need to smile. You’ve been sold to a good man, Cortês. He treats his girls well; they don’t take pills or see more than one man a day... and you’re going to live in a beautiful hotel and see all sorts of rich men, nothing like the scum here. I’ve heard he even finds some of his girls husbands.” She looked wistful.

“I... I don’t want to leave,” I managed to sputter out, trying in vain to keep my voice steady.

“There’s no future for you here. You would have started serving guests soon, and then there’s no getting out...” Her voice grew weak. “Look, there’s some things you’re going to need to know when you leave with Cortês. He’ll expect you to know that you’re going to need to shave yourself bare, and that you must make your face up every morning, and you can’t speak to the guests unless spoken to first.”

“And, what am I supposed to do with the guests?” I asked, apprehensive.

Mei just shook her head.

“The first time, it’s better if you don’t know. They prefer it that way. You’ll catch on quick; you’re a smart girl.”

She must have seen the horror on my face, because she gave me a quick pat on the shoulder.

“It’s not that bad, really. I promise. You won’t even care after a few weeks.”

She was lying.

* * *

In the end, it was decided that my sale to Cortês would pay off a tenth of the debt owed. I later learned that our brothel had incurred the debt buying pills from Cortês to drug the girls with. Injection tracks were not considered attractive to the “higher level of clientele” we were seeking out.

* * *

 

I was initiated into the strange new world of casino floors and hotel rooms two nights after Cortês bought me with a simple tattoo on my wrist.

 _You are property_ , it spoke.

And so I obeyed.

* * *

 

Cortês treated me with a strange mixture of personal indifference and a keen business interest. I was valuable to him because of my virginity, and he intended on holding onto it until he was certain he’d found the highest bidder.

I learned the ways of my new world slowly. The hotel made of glass and gold, the casino floors full of smoke and drink, the throngs of well dressed men, always a woman on their arm. I wasn't to mingle with the guests though, not like some ladies did. (We were ladies here, not girls.)

My sexual appeal seemed to lie in my complete lack of sexuality. I didn't flirt or smile or tease. I moved through the floors like a ghost, bound to the building then only by the tattoo on my wrist which rendered me incapable of leaving.

Later they would bind me with other things.

My room was beautiful though, and mine alone. I got plenty of snide looks from the other ladies because of that.

_So high up, such a distance to fall._

The bed was a deep blue, the color of the ocean. I would lay on my back and dream of floating away to anywhere, anywhere but here. Back to the brothel, away from the crippling boredom. I would sit in my lovely blue and gold room, with it’s stately little nightstand and the armoire full of new dresses and lingerie I wasn’t allowed to wear yet.

It took almost a month for Cortês to find a man “suitable” for me, he told me, rolling out the word as if he had searched tirelessly on my behalf. I had grown to despise Cortês, and yet I was dependant on him for everything. I couldn’t even eat without calling him and asking for food. He eyed me like a fox every moment I had to come up to his office to request something-more shampoo, a pair of socks, anything. I have no illusions that he wouldn’t have fucked me himself, had I not been so valuable.

The night before I was to be given away, he called me into his office and handed me a worn piece of paper with a list of names.

“Xui Li,” he said, “is no name for a girl like you.”

This is how I became Sévérine.

* * *

 

The first man was the president of a bank in Hong Kong. I was told that I should act very impressed.

I cried the whole way through.

I was later commended on how much he enjoyed it.

* * *

 

After I saw my first guest, the days and weeks and months melted into one long and endless blur of sex and cigarettes (another one of the ladies got me hooked on nicotine). I was eventually moved from my blue and gold oasis when another virgin was bought, and into one of the larger bedrooms which I was to share with six other ladies.

_Such a distance to fall._

No one would tell me what happened to the woman who formerly occupied the bed I slept in.

I kept up the scared virgin act for a whole year, mewling and crying my way through sex, stumbling in my heels like a fawn when I approached a customer on the casino floor, giggling in response to every question I was asked, until a customer tossed me out of his room when I told him it was my first time. He said that I wasn’t fooling him.

I believe I was fourteen.

I got antsy and depressed, and Cortês didn’t like it. He started slipping pills into my food-uppers, downers, inbetweeners, whatever it took to make me placid and uncaring. I caught myself in the mirror with the same sleepy expression I saw on the faces of the girls from home.

That was when I started taking them of my own free will.

I stopped thinking, I stopped feeling-I ran through the motions of everything. Of life, of sex, the sultry smiles and coy glances. Some nights I was called up to a customers’ room, others I had to go out on my own accord and seduce men who may have had a drink too many. The men I saw were somewhat varied- some of them were kind enough, almost embarrassed by what they were doing. Most of them were not. I slept with attractive men, ugly men, married men, single men, anyone with enough money to pay Cortês his fee. I never saw a cent of it.

I was well aware that there were women out there not leading the same kind of life that I was, yet it never really occurred to me to wish or hope for anything more.

The pills stopped working, or rather they started working the way they were intended to-not to keep me happy, but to make me stay. I got sick to my stomach when I went too long without a dose, and sometimes the combinations I was given made me sicker yet. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped thinking.

I was done with my lot in life. I suppose at that point I was ready to die.

I was fifteen years old.

* * *

**February, 2001.**

I was laying in bed, nauseated and woozy, when there was a banging on the door.

“What is it?” I called out, my head buried underneath my pillow.

Cortês came bursting in through the door, pissed off and red in the face. All the other ladies were off with clients.

“Why the fuck didn’t you answer the phone?” he growled. It was true, our phone had been ringing nonstop for the past ten minutes. I was too tired and fed up to answer it.

“I was asleep,” I offered up, soft and weak voice.

“I don’t care if you were dead. I have a guest up in his room right now with an AmEx credit card who wants a girl, and all of you cunts are somehow missing? Get out of bed.”

I pushed myself up, trying not to fall back down. I was lightheaded and seeing double. I needed a dose, or I’d taken a dose of the wrong thing; I couldn’t keep it straight anymore.

“Room 887. Get your worthless ass up there now.”

Cortês turned around and left, just as furious as he had entered. I stood beside my bed for a moment, the room spinning. For a moment, I considered just laying back down and letting Mr. 887 jerk himself off tonight. But, I knew that I was on thin ice after not answering the phone, and I wouldn’t last long on the street.

So I ran a comb through my hair, put on a nice dress, and did my best to keep my balance as I walked to the elevator.

“Room eight-eight-seven,” I repeated to myself. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

 

* * *

The door slammed shut behind me. I could never get used to that noise. It was like an execution blow.

 _You are trapped,_ it said.

The room was so bright, I had to wince. Most guests liked low light. But some of them wanted to inspect me. I hoped that he wasn't one of the latter. I didn't think I could handle being picked apart by an overfed bureaucrat while I was so woozy.

It was one of the more expensive single suites, with a crimson colored waterbed, flanked by two mahogany side tables. The room was a mess of overpriced amenities; there were brass lamps and a flat television almost three feet across, an empty bottle of champagne laying on the floor—a bad sign—and a wardrobe closet with the doors wretched open.

I had seen stranger things.

My guest of the night was laying down in the bed. I hated that, when they made me come get into bed with them. It felt like some sort of sick power play. I couldn't see much of him from the angle I was standing at save for a shock of blonde hair atop his pillow. I took a few steps forward, mentally prepared myself to be sultry and charming with legs spread wide open for whatever he wanted. My stomach was churning and it felt like my brain was scraping the inside of my skull. I was in no condition to work—I was in no condition to do anything but lay on my stomach and cry.

My eyes panned over to the bedside table. There was something sitting upon it—it looked like a retainer almost. Curled blue plastic, shiny with spit. I winced. I hoped it wasn't something for me. Men who brought their own toys along were always the most demanding and depraved sort of bastards.

The sheets on the bed rustled. I looked back over to the client.

To this day, I can't describe his appearance accurately, but to give my best try, it was as if his face was caving in on itself and his lips were trying to fight gravity, resulting in a golf ball sized indentation in his cheek. One of his eyes drooped down noticeably lower than the other, and he was missing the majority of his teeth. The ones which were still intact seemed to be barely hanging on to inflamed red gums.

I realized that he was trying to smile at me, and attempted to suppress my gagging. The main source of my nausea was really the drugs, but the customer I had suddenly been faced with wasn't exactly helping matters.

Without thinking, I ran through the open door of the suite's bathroom and coughed up some clear acidic vomit into the sink. The back of my throat stung, and my eyes were watering. I turned on the water to wash it down the drain, while desperately trying to think of an excuse for my sudden illness.

When I gazed up at my reflection in the mirror, he was standing behind me. I almost jumped.

“Is it really that bad?” He opened his mouth as if he was about to yawn, examining the cavern his missing palate formed. I could see straight through to his septum. “Well, I suppose it is. I used to be quite handsome, you know.”

I coughed again, holding onto the sides of the sink to keep my balance.

He was holding the piece of blue plastic in his hand.

“This needs some refinement; it's rather uncomfortable, actually. Though had I known you would have reacted so...” He paused, and made a slight shrugging motion. “Well, let's just take care of it.”

He forced the blue plastic into his mouth, and I watched as his features morphed.

“That's better, don't you think so?”

I spit up into the sink again, barely aware of what he was saying.

“Oh, don't be like that.”

I lost my balance, legs giving out underneath me. The floor was so wonderfully cold against my skin; I wondered how much trouble I would be in if I just laid here the rest of the night. He was staring down at me, I could feel it, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked. There wasn't any cruelty in his voice.

“My stomach hurts,” I managed to choke out.

“Uh huh,” he said, soft.

To my surprise, he bent over and slid two arms underneath me, scooping me off the floor and into a bridal carry.

My mind immediately rushed to the worst possible scenario—that he was going to get his money's worth with me one way or another.

He instead laid me down on the bed and sat on the edge. I was clinging onto the pillow for dear life, as if I would float away without something to anchor me.

“I didn't have to do this before, you know,” he said. “Pay.”

I rolled my head to the side and stared at him. I wasn't sure if he expected me to listen to him or not.

“Are you sick?” he asked.

I nodded as best as I could.

“You can go to sleep.”

This is how I met Raoul Silva.


	2. La Vita Nuova

Chapter Two.

In that book which is my memory,

On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,

Appear the words, “Here begins a new life.”

_(La Vita Nuova, Dante Alighieri)_

* * *

 

When I woke up, I felt as though my mouth had been scrubbed out with a bar of soap. My eyelids were heavy, but I forced them open.

I was in the same bed which I had fallen asleep in the past night—this was generally a good sign. Someone's arm was laying across my chest. I craned my neck slightly to see.

The arm in question belonged to the man from last night, who appeared to be asleep next to me. Without the nausea and headache blurring my vision, I could see his features more clearly now. It was apparent that the majority of his upper jawbone was missing somehow, like it had been pulled out from under the skin. I cringed involuntarily. How could that have happened to someone—and what would you have to do to deserve it? His nose looked like it had been broken once or twice, and his hair was bright blonde, but there was a hint of black coming in at the roots.

He opened his eyes—he had remarkably large and dark eyes—and smiled at me, mouth shut this time. There was something terribly unnerving about his smile, regardless of his face. It was the look he gave me along with it. I'd seen it before, on cats about to catch a mouse.

“Do I still frighten you?” he asked, low voice.

You would think that after almost four years of being tossed around to a different man every night, that I would have been immune to fear by now. And up until that point, I thought I was. Yet, even after entertaining the sadistic tastes of any bastard rich and depraved enough to pay for me; after being twisted and tied up, forced to reenact scores of pornographic fantasies, here I was, trembling in fear, because a man who had barely laid a hand on me was smiling.

“I think so,” I whispered back.

He kept his voice soft, slid his arm down to the small of my back in one slow and smooth motion.

“Do you want to know what happened to me?” he said. It sounded like a threat.

“I don't know, sir.”

His other hand found my neck, rested there.

“Of course you want to know. I can see the question written all over your _lovely_ face.” He drew out the word long enough to make it sound obscene. I did my best to stifle a whimper.

“Shh, shh; don't be scared now. Let me ask you something... what's your name, darling?” He stroked the side of my jaw. I could feel his hand pressing down on my neck.

“Sévérine.”

“Beautiful.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. I kept my breaths slow and even: I could handle this man. I'd gotten through far worse with a smile.

It was his subtlety which left me feeling uneasy, the not knowing just what he was thinking. Most men might as well have had it plastered on their foreheads: they wanted me so they could get off. Whether it was about power, or asserting their male dominance, or an insult to their wife, at the bottom of it all, they wanted to get off.

Not him.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Sévérine?”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you ever loved someone?”

“I don't believe so, sir.”

He patted my cheek, strangely enough. I flinched away from him, but his other arm pulled me back against his chest. We were both under the sheets, and I could feel his skin against my own. I couldn't tell if I still had my clothes on, and my mind filled with possibilities of what could have occurred while I was passed out.

“Poor dear. Though, perhaps you're better off that way. I loved someone very much once, and then they did _this_ to me.” He ended the sentence in an angry hiss, nearly spitting in my face.

“How did they do that?” I asked, my curiosity winning out over fear.

“They lied to me."

Rather abruptly, he pulled his hands away from me, and pushed the comforter off. He rose from the bed, and I saw that he was undressed, save for black boxers. His shoulders were lined with ridges of raised scar tissue, which extended down to the middle of his back.

“It's impolite to stare, you know,” he said, not even turning around.

“I, uh; my apologies. Sir,” I choked out.

He laughed at that.

“Sévérine, if you had a choice in the matter, would you sleep with me?”

He wasn't facing me.

I shook my head, slow and steady.

“If I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn't sleep with anyone.”

He clapped his hands together, like he was delighted by my answer.

“Ah, you're a clever girl, aren't you?”

Before I could formulate some sort of response to that, he limped off into the bathroom—something I hadn't noticed before—and slammed the door shut behind him.

I got out of the bed and l surveyed my face in a mirror hanging over the armoire. I noticed that I had neglected to make up myself up last night. Perhaps it was a small blessing that this client didn't seem like the type to complain.

I was still dressed in the tight black dress with a plunging neckline I'd worn the night before. My eyes were puffy, like I'd been crying, and my face was washed out of any color it might have once had.

I looked rather sick, now that I was paying attention. My mouth was gritty, so I got out of bed and walked over to the small table in the corner of the room and grabbed a bottle of water off of it, careful to avoid stepping on the champagne that remained lying on the floor. I was cautious about opening the bottle for a moment. Some men took offense to me drinking even water in their presence—imagine that—but as strange as this client was, I knew he was not that variety of strange.

No, he was something else altogether.

Sitting at down the table, I could hear him spitting and hacking in the bathroom. I grimaced. I hope he didn't infect me with some disease further than my current predicament, a thought which brought me back to my illness last night.

I was plainly aware that I was, if not in the process of dying, then I was close to being so. The drugs and the drinks and the cigarettes every night were starting to weigh down on me, and I could feel their sickness like it was crawling under my skin. Though, I didn't find the thought of dying to be terribly disagreeable. I only hoped that my next life would be less tedious and lonely.

I'd become fond of the idea that the orphanage, the brothel, and the hotel were all stages of some sort of sex-laden purgatory, and that when I was through with them I would be reborn into a life that would be at least a bit more exciting, if nothing else.

I was startled from my own introspection by the sound of a door opening.

He emerged from the bathroom with an entirely new, repaired, face. I couldn't hide my stare, because while I'd seen him use the blue palate piece last night, I hadn't fully understood the transformative effect it had. He must have put in something more than that one piece of plastic—an assumption I later learned to be true.

He was dressed now, in a loose black sweater and slacks. He was almost handsome, really, with his face set correctly.

He watched me with a strange intensity as I drank. I saw him running his tongue over his bottom lip. I flinched and he smiled at me, beamed with a full set of teeth.

He walked up to the table, and put his hand down on the black hotel directory which lay on top of it. I stared up at him, trying in vain to anticipate his next move.

“It wouldn’t be a proper hotel visit without room service. What do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

 

* * *

I played around with the eggs on my plate, flipping them over and over again with my fork. He, for the first time since I'd met him, was not staring me down, but paying attention to his own food. My stomach wasn't in favor of the eggs, so I nibbled the corner of my toast.

I stole a glance at him. His jaw moved in and out when he chewed, grinding up into itself. I wondered what he looked like before the disfiguration.  
“Five years ago,” he began between bites, as casual as if he was telling me the weather. “Five years ago, I could have walked in here and bent you over this table and fucked you,  and you would have begged me to do it again.”

I coughed on my toast.

“Not likely, sir.”

“And why do you say that?” he asked, stabbing a piece of bacon with his fork. He used the utensil to gesture in the air while he spoke.

I took a breath and considered my options. He was a dangerous man, that much was certain. But, I knew that if I didn't tell him the truth, he would know.

“Sex is a job. Why would I ever ask for more than I'm already told to do?”

The corners of his mouth crinkled upwards, like he was amused. I felt my face becoming flushed. He was _amused_ by me.

“That's a rather tragic way of looking at it, don't you think?” He folded his hands on top of one another and sat them on top of the table, leaning in towards me. “Hmm?”

I was angry now. Who was this man to tell me that I should _enjoy_ being fucked senseless every night by a different man, as if there was something wrong with me because I didn't? His smug smile made me want to strike his face—I was furious; it felt like I was on fire.

“I don't suppose that a man of your station would understand. It's all fun and pleasure for you; you don't know what it's like to be pinned down on the floor against your will, to be tied up at the knees and forced to kneel like that for hours, do you? Do you know what it's like, to have your ass fucked by four different men? To be used like you're disposable; thrown out when they're through with you? And you ask me why I don't likeit?”

He fell eeirly silent after that; he didn't so much as breathe.

I felt anxiety crawling all over my skin—I had gone much too far. His charity would only last so long, and I had just ruined it. He was going to take me now, over the table like he promised. Or worse, he was going to call Cortês and send me back.

I tried to look at his face, but he was staring straight down at his lap, his lips muttering something unheard.

We sat like that, painfully still for what felt like an eternity. I didn't dare touch my food, which was cold by now. All the while, he wouldn't look at me. I was terrified.

“Your anger is misdirected,” he finally spoke. I was so relieved, I barely comprehended the words.

“What?” I breathed.

He grinned suddenly, like it was all some sort of big joke.

“Why are you telling me this? I haven't done a thing to you!” His tone was almost jovial, and his smile was just as predatory as before. “You should be angry at the people who did this to you. But you're not angry at them, are you? No. No you are not. Because you need them. You need them, so you lay on the ground and let them step all over you. They sent you here without knowing or caring whether you would come back alive. I could _kill_ you right now! They wouldn’t care. They wouldn’t send anyone to find you until it was far too late. You see, this...this _predicament_ which you find yourself in, this is _your_ fault. You have failed to take control of your own life. And now you're dying, are you not? And you're just going to keep letting them fuck you until you roll over and die? Oof."

He twisted his face up into a grimace.

“How terribly sad.”

I felt like all the air had been forced out of my lungs.

“You've decided, haven't you? Your mind is all made up—you're going to die here. You've let them wretch everything you had out of your hands... and now you won't even take the initiative to die on your own.”

“Stop it,” I pleaded. “Stop it.” I was crying now, big sloppy tears down my swollen face.

“You've been sold, and lied to, and raped, and cheated. For _what?_ To just give up, like they want you to?”

“I don't know!”

He stood up from his seat and walked behind me. I heard him shuffling in his pockets.

I felt cold metal against my temple. It was a gun.

He was holding a gun to my head.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't find the breath inside of me to do so, so I just kept crying.

“Do you know what this is, darling?”

“It's a gun,” I choked out.

“No... it's a _choice_.”

“What kind of choice?”

“You could kill yourself...” He grabbed my right hand and forced me to grasp the gun along with him. “Or, you can kill those who made you suffer.” He let go of the gun, so it was resting solely in my hand.

I couldn't stop crying. I threw the gun down on the table, not caring if it discharged or not.

“It's all up to you,” he whispered.

There was a knock on the door.

I almost fell out of my chair, I was so shocked. He snatched the gun off the table in one swift motion and flicked the safety on. I felt a tightness in my chest—he really could have killed me.

I tried my best to compose myself, to remember the breathing tricks I had taught myself so long ago to stop the crying. I could hear him cracking open the door in the living room.

“Mr. Cortês, hello. Is there something I can do for you?” His voice was all easy charm, not a care in the world.

“Mr. Silva,” Cortês began. I recognized his tone of voice; Cortês was pissed for whatever reason. I hoped I had nothing to do with it. “We attempted to reach you over the room’s phone and your personal mobile, but we were unable to.”

I looked over to the phone sitting by the bed. All the wires were unplugged. He must have done that after he called room service.

“Are you going to be returning the girl now, or should I charge your card again?”

I felt my pulse quicken. I had no idea what time it was, but I must have been with him for quite some time if I had slept and eaten breakfast. Was I going to go back now?

His voice echoed back into the bedroom.

“I want her for the week. You can charge my card again.”

I wasn’t sure if I felt relief or pain. The breathing tricks weren’t working anymore.

I didn’t want to face him. I didn’t want to face Cortês either.

“She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she, Mr. Silva?” The sound of Cortês’ voice made me want to vomit. I was angry at him now, and angry at myself for taking his abuse for years. For swallowing the pills and spreading my legs.

“I would certainly agree. If you would please excuse me, Mr. Cortês.”

I heard Cortês laugh out in the hallway. It sounded like a donkey’s bray. I winced.

“Just return her in once piece please!”

“Oh, but of course.”

I balled up my fists and dug my nails down into my palms. _Return her in one piece_. No one really did care if I lived or died.

My tears kept falling, despite my best intentions. I felt ridiculous, like a little girl all over again. I was still crying when he returned to my side, Cortês long gone. He looked at me, with my eyes squeezed up tight, and my fists balled up in frustration and made a slight gasp.

“Why are you crying, darling?” he asked, his voice full of a sickly sweet sincerity. He pulled his chair up next to mine and sat down so close that our knees were touching. I felt his hand stroke the side of my cheek, and I flinched away.

“Shhh, don’t... don’t. I’m not going to hurt you.” I moved back towards him, letting him touch my face, as uncomfortable as it was.

“There,” he said. “That’s better, isn’t it? Did they hurt you?”

I sniffled and shook my head. I didn’t know what to say or do.

“No, no; that’s not true. I know they hurt you. You can tell me. Show me where it hurts; show me where they hurt you.” He put two fingers over my lips. “Here?”

I nodded.

“Well, that just won’t do.” He traced a line down my neck, over my dress, and finally rested his hand over my heart.

“And here too?”

I nodded again, and wondered where he might touch next.

“No more tears now,” he said, reaching in his pocket and taking the gun out again. He grabbed my hand in his, guided my fingers to the trigger. “And no more throwing away your choices.” He smiled, just slightly. “Now is the time to act.” He drew his hand away. I was holding the gun on my own.

“Why are you doing this for me?”

He leaned down to eye level with me and kissed my cheek.

“All will be revealed in time, darling.”

I nodded and placed the gun down on the table, gently this time.

“What’s your name?” I asked. I had heard it earlier, but I wasn’t entirely sure.  

His eyes flickered down at the table briefly before he answered me.

“You can call me Raoul Silva.”

“Silva,” I repeated. I liked the way his name felt.

He touched my forehead with the back of his hand and frowned.

“You have a fever. You should rest.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head quite rapidly.

“No, no, no. You need to go back to sleep.” He grabbed me by both hands and pulled me up from the chair. “Come along now; planning a murder can be _exhausting_ business.”

* * *

I had been doing quite a bit of waking up in strange circumstances from the time I’d met Mr. Silva. This time, it must have been midafternoon when I awoke.

I looked around the room.

No Silva.

I got up and rubbed my eyes. I felt a little better after sleeping for the second time. I hadn’t gotten any decent sleep in weeks-always being woken up an hour or two in by a phone call from Cortês ordering me off to some room, or being too wired on some pharmaceutical cocktail to get my brain to shut down.The bedroom had been cleaned up since this morning; the plates from breakfast were gone, the wardrobe doors had been closed, and the champagne bottle must have been thrown away.

After I realized that Silva wasn’t in the bedroom, I got up and checked the bathroom. He wasn’t there either. The living room-which I had only seen once thus far-was similarly empty, though I noticed that there was a thick metal briefcase sitting on the couch, and next to it, a ball of plastic coated wires.

I went back into the bedroom to decide what to do with myself until Silva came back. I couldn’t leave the room without the key, lest I get locked out. I had decided to take a shower, when I noticed the bedroom table where we had eaten breakfast.

On top of it lay a copy of the room key, and the gun.

Cautious, I picked up the gun, looking over my shoulder to see if Silva was somehow summoned by my touching it. He was not. My fingers traced over the trigger. _It’s a choice,_ I could hear him say.

Choose to kill yourself; choose to kill Silva; choose to kill Cortês; or choose to do nothing. The possibilities made my head spin. I’d never been given any kind of choice up until that moment. Yet, I knew that whatever I chose to do was going to change my life forever.

In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, I aimed the gun at the wall with my eyes shut, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The safety was on.

I breathed out a sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I just didn’t want to have to decide. It seemed terribly unfair.

I plucked the room key off the table and held it flat against my palm. It was some degree of freedom-I could leave the room and come back. Perhaps he had left it there so I could get my clothes from my room for the week?

As soon as I thought it, I knew that was ridiculous. Silva didn’t seem like the sort of man to think in such terms. Regardless, it was a good idea, if I didn’t want to wear the same dress for the next couple days.

I left room 887 and got on the elevator back to the “staff” quarters. As if I was paid to be here. The more I thought about my conversation with Silva, the more angry I felt towards not only Cortês, but all my clients. It was thrilling in a way, to allow myself to feel anything more than apathy and unhappiness. To allow myself to be mad.

I snuck through the narrow and poorly lit corridors of our bedrooms-if we put a guest in rooms like these, they would riot. Mine was at the end of the hallway, but I managed to avoid running into anyone who wanted to talk. Cortês wasn’t prowling around this early in the afternoon, and most of the girls were hazy and not interested in conversation. Still, I was afraid they would somehow see the fire in my eyes somehow. My heart was pounding. I had a room key. I had a gun. I could go anywhere I pleased with that. I could leave if I wanted; what could anyone do to stop me?

It was a genius plan, I decided. I’d pack up my dresses and pawn them off; I remembered pawn shops from my time running errands for the brothel. I would get a decent job mending clothes or cleaning, and I would never touch a man again.

I just about sprinted into my shared room, ignoring anyone else who was there, and pulled our dresser drawers open so quickly that they almost fell out.

“What are you doing?” a girl named Jade, whom I lived with, asked. Jade was from India, but she had been kidnapped when she was so young, she couldn’t remember a single thing about the place. She was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, not an expression on her face.

“A man bought me for the week. I’m taking some of my things to his room,” I explained, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

“Ouch,” Jade replied, still focused on the ceiling.

“It’s not terrible.”

“Just wait. They get bored after the first two days.”

“Mhm,” I replied, not really paying attention. I spotted a purse in the bottom of the drawer and grabbed it. I figured I could hide the gun in it;  I wasn’t yet aware of the practice of strapping them to your thigh.

I stuffed the dresses into a laundry bag. It was a little noticeable, but I figured I could snag Silva’s briefcase from the living room and switch off before I left. He shouldn’t care too much. It was his idea after all, really.

* * *

When I got back to Silva’s room, he still wasn’t there. I dumped all the dresses out onto the couch in the living room and popped open his briefcase. There was a computer inside of it. I remembered finding that strange; why was he carrying it around in such a large and heavy case? Not that it particularly mattered to me anymore. I pulled the computer out with some effort and placed it down on the couch, and put the rolled up dresses inside. They just barely fit, but some wrinkles was a small price to pay for taking them with me.

Lastly, I got the gun from the bedroom and put it inside my purse.

* * *

I decided to leave through the lobby. This was my mistake. Perhaps, had I chosen to sneak out a back door or something similar, my entire life would have been different. But, I wanted to exit the same way I had entered. It meant something to me at the time, I guess. Taking a stand or what have you.

I almost made it too. Not one of the preoccupied visitors noticed me; not even the guards paid me any attention when my wrist was covered by the handle of the briefcase. The lobby was beautiful and constantly busy; it was easy for someone to just slip through. With my head held high, I stepped out of the elevator, and took my first few tentative steps towards freedom. Past the bar, with ugly men in suits hashing out dubious business deals over drinks, past the garish marble front desk and the chipper clerks, past the bellhops and luggage, straight to the front doors.  

But, I turned around for one last look, and there he was. Sitting at the bar, a drink in hand, staring right into me like he knew exactly what I was thinking. His eyes met my own, and I stood frozen. He frowned and shook his head.  I could see it written all over his face.

He was disappointed in me.

And, despite all logic or reasoning, I didn’t want to let him down.

I thought back to the gun, the choices. Cortês, the hotel, the last thing Silva said to me before I went to sleep. I wasn’t going to run away from this. I was going to face it.

I matched his stare for what felt like an eternity, but was really only a few seconds, as I processed all my thoughts. I couldn’t leave. I’d be letting Cortês do the same to hundreds of other girls as he had done to me.

So I turned around and walked back to the bar.

* * *

“Darling, so good to see you again,” Silva said, gesturing to the empty stool next to him. “Sit down; have a drink... _stay a while_ ; won’t you?” He looked rather pleased with himself.

“What will you be having, ma’am?” the bartender asked. I stood, rendered mute. I’d very rarely been taken out with clients, though it wasn’t completely unheard of. Still, they always ordered for me. I couldn’t go running up a bar tab after all, not with the all the money they were paying for me already.

I looked to Silva. He just smirked.

“I’ll have...” I paused and looked down at Silva’s glass. “Whatever he’s drinking.”

“Just a moment,” the bartender replied.

“You’ll learn,” Silva said, taking a sip from his glass. He looked down to my feet where the briefcase was sitting. “I _hope_ that’s not my computer.” Something about his tone made me very glad it wasn’t.

“It’s not,” I said, staring down at the counter. “It’s my clothes.”

“Planning on running away, were you? Hm. An interesting idea, but not rather well thought out.” He grabbed my left hand with some force and turned it so my wrist was facing outwards. “You’re marked, darling. There’s a reward for bringing you back intact.” He took another drink and shrugged. “And a slightly smaller one for bringing you back in multiple pieces.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“What do you want with me?” I whispered, rather irritated by now. “Why didn’t you just let me leave? What difference does it make to you?”

“Your drink, ma’am?” the bartender said, handing me a glass. I could hear the hesitation in his voice, and it amused me for a moment that he must of thought Silva and I were having a lover’s spat.

I took a sip and coughed on the burning taste. Silva rolled his eyes at me.

“I have a bit of a _personal disagreement_ with your friend, Mr. Cortês. He doesn’t know just now, though he won’t be in the dark much longer. I thought that perhaps... you might like to help me make Cortês aware of my complaint with him?”  

“And how would I go about doing that?”

“With something in your purse right now.”

Of course he knew I took the gun. He left it there for me. He had this all planned out, and I’d walked straight into it. How long had he been sitting at the bar, waiting to see if I tried to make a run for it?

He leaned up against me and whispered into my ear.

“You give me Cortês, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

I felt the heat of his breath against my skin, his eyes seeing right through me, and I knew then that my life was over. Just not in the way I had expected it.


	3. Lady Lazarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Please note, this chapter contains a non-consensual scene, which is not between Séverine and Silva.*

Chapter Three.

Dying  
Is an art, like everything else.  
I do it exceptionally well.

( _Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath_ )

* * *

  
The ice in my drink was melting from my feverish hands grasping the glass so tight I feared it would shatter. Silva was all smiles now, having revealed his big plan. I had wondered what he meant when he told me, “planning a murder is exhausting business,” before I had gone to sleep, but in my exhaustion I had dismissed it as another one of his idiosyncrasies; certainly no stranger than a missing jaw or ordering room service for a call girl.

“How am I supposed to do that?” I whispered, terrified that our conversation would be overheard and I would be snatched up by security and hauled back to my room, never to see Silva again.

“Patience, patience, darling. We are still in the planning stages, you see. We must take our time. Explore... every option.” He enunciated the word _option_ , speaking slowly and tapping his hand against the counter. “You took the gun, didn’t you?”

I nodded, silent.

“You’re a clever girl.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“Ah.” He laughed softly. He had an unsettling sort of laugh, as if there was a joke you couldn’t hope to understand. “That is because it is true.”

“Anyone would have taken the gun.”

He shook his head.

“No, no, you see, this is where you are wrong. You took the initiative, Sévérine.” He drew my name out, smiled as he said it. I could feel the beads of condensation rolling down my glass.

“What happens now?” I asked. I was getting anxious with this talk of murder. I wanted to go back up to the room and dump the gun out of my purse.

He looked up around the lobby, as if he was searching for the response. “You go back to our room and freshen yourself up, hmm? You should be dressed accordingly for the big event.”

I gave him a blank stare.

“Oh, I don’t mean to insult you, darling. You are absolutely lovely as you are. I just happen to be expecting a package, and I wouldn’t dream of boring you while I wait for it to arrive. Run along now.”

I got up, confused as ever, and walked back to the elevator. It appeared that escaping by myself was not an option. Silva, as odd as he was, seemed crazy enough to actually go through with freeing me.

It was a chance. That was more than I’d ever had before.

* * *

  
I was getting out of the shower when he walked into the bathroom. He slammed the door open with such violence, I thought for a moment that it would come off the frame. I didn’t know why he was angered, and I didn’t care to find out, but I couldn’t bring myself to move from my position in the corner, with my knees knocking together and water puddling around my feet. The towel was laying over the counter, but I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. Besides, modesty was something I’d never truly learned, having spent my life believing my body to be the property of someone else, so I wasn’t bothered by my nakedness in front of him. What I did find strange was how he didn’t even look at me. Instead, he turned on the sink and ran his hands under the water for a moment before sticking a few fingers into his mouth.

I watched in silence as he pulled out his top teeth, part of what appeared to be his jawbone, and finally his palate. There was an unsettling sucking noise following every motion his hand made. He coughed blood and spat into the sink along with each piece, making all kinds of gruesome hacking sounds. He then laid these parts of his face out on the counter, bloodied and mixing in with the spilt water to form pink droplets on the white porcelain. I stared at him the whole time, transfixed.

He turned and looked at me, took in my stunned expression.

“Be a good girl,” he coughed, “and get me a drink.”

I almost jumped, I was so startled by his sudden acknowledgement of my presence. Still undressed, I hurried out into the bedroom.

“There’s a bottle of Scotch in the armoire,” he called after me, sounding rather irritated.

I opened up the armoire, which was full of folded up suit jackets and the computer cables which had been moved out of the living room. No Scotch.

“I don’t see it!”

In the bathroom, I could hear something being kicked. I winced and pushed aside some of the jackets. The bottle was laying at the bottom of the clothes. I snatched it up and ran back into the bathroom-a distance of only a few feet.

“This?” I asked, close to breathless.

He looked from the bottle to myself and shook his head.

“No glass, hm?”

“Uhm...” I was at a loss for words and just wanted the whole ordeal to be over with.

Scowling, he took the bottle from my hands and popped the cap off, letting it fall onto the floor. He took a swig from the neck of the bottle and spat the liquor out into the sink. There was more blood along with it.

“They don’t fit right, do they?” I asked, my voice just barely above a whisper. “That’s why you’re bleeding, isn’t it? Does it hurt?”

He turned and looked at me with more malice in his eyes than I had ever seen before. I immediately regretted the question.

“Do you plan on getting dressed?” he said. He wasn’t asking; it was a dismissal.

I bobbed my head yes, before fleeing the room and wrapping myself up in my bathrobe. I sat down on the corner of the bed and waited.

It’s amazing, how much the approval of one person can come to mean to you in such a short period of time. Perhaps you might think me foolish for how much faith I put into Silva. Perhaps you would be correct. But, he was the only sort of hope I’d ever felt. The thought of upsetting him or him changing his mind; it was too awful to comprehend. I could envision him walking out of my life as suddenly as he had entered, leaving me with nothing.

Once you get it, that first taste of freedom, you know you would rather die than lose it.

I knew that he had to come out eventually, but there was an irrational part of my mind which was convinced that I would never see him again somehow. Of course, he did open the door and walk out again after only a minute or so. His face was sunken without the prosthetics. The sight didn’t bother me as much now, having already seen it. It was just the memory of the blood that left me feeling squeamish.

“I’m sorry for asking that. It was a stupid question,” I blurted out the second I heard him, staring down at the floor while I spoke.

I felt him sit down next to me. I didn’t look up at him; my face was burning bright red and I could feel it. I was so terribly overwhelmed. I wanted to beg him to stay, to forgive me; I wanted to promise that I’d never say something so thoughtless again.

I did not speak though. Voicing these sorts of thoughts aloud would not end well, this I knew. Silva was well aware of how helpless I was. I was not about to confirm it.

“Do you want to know why I want to kill Cortês?”

The question surprised me. I looked up at him and nodded for him to continue.

“Cortês and I had a business deal which involved him hiding large amounts of money from the Chinese government by way of computers and online banking... it’s all rather dry. He was not, however, very skilled at covering his own tracks, and was soon charged with fraud. He avoided prison by paying a large fine, and turning in all of his computers.”

“And so they traced it back to you?”

He scoffed.

“Hardly. They had a list of possible accomplices, myself included. However, they made my employer aware of this, and I was...” He paused and looked around the room, as if the right words were floating in the air. “Unfairly punished.”

I winced.

“I didn’t come here with the intent of killing Cortês, merely reclaiming some of what his incompetence stole from me.” He placed his hand on my knee. “But, you, my darling, have convinced me otherwise.”

I stared up at him, almost laughed in disbelief.

“What?”

He smiled at me, best as he could. It was a rather unpleasant sight, but I kept my face blank.

“I do not care for men who keep others for sport.” There was a harsh and bitter quality to his voice as he spoke, and I understood then to some extent what must have happened to him.

I let myself lean into him as a sort of empathetic expression, and he surprised me by putting his arm around my waist and pulling me closer, until I was just about in his lap. I tensed up for a moment, waiting for him to push his hands lower, to start fiddling with with the ties of my robe. But he never did. We sat like that for a few minutes, without speaking further. I put my head against his shoulder and began to relax. He held me tighter against himself in response, but it didn’t feel possessive or threatening. It was comforting.

I’d never been held by a man before; I never knew that I could be touched in a way that wasn’t meant to be sexual or dominating. I remember, while listening to his slow and even breathing against my skin, thinking to myself that, for the first time, I was a person in someone’s eyes.

I was so at ease sitting with his arms around me that I almost fell asleep. Just as I was about to close my eyes, he nudged me in the side and said,

“Does it hurt?”

“What?” I replied, sleepy and confused.

“What they have done to you. Does it hurt?”

I recognized the question as my own, the one which had led to all of this.

“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, it hurts.”

“So then you know.”

In hindsight, Silva must have come to the hotel with the intent of murdering Cortês, and convincing me otherwise was more or less a game to him. I could see that he was unbalanced; that he had been toying with my emotions and was taking advantage of me. But, in that moment, I believed him. I even trusted him.

Silva treated me like any other person he might have known, and while that wasn’t always particularly well, he was the first man to do so. And thus, when he told me that he would help kill the man who had spent the past four years torturing me, out of his own desire to do what was right, to this day, I cannot bring myself to believe that he was lying completely.

* * *

  
“Have you used a computer before, Sévérine?”

Silva was standing in the doorway, looking quite pleased with himself for some reason. I felt a bit nervous.

After our previous conversation, he’d gotten up from the bed and walked off to attend to some unknown matters. I’d taken the opportunity to lay down and trace the patterns of dots on the ceiling. I was still rather sick, though I’d been feeling better as I’d been sleeping most of the past two days, between bouts of commentary from Silva and my escape attempt.

I looked up at him, wondering if he expected me to answer. Of course I’d never used a computer before- I barely knew what they were.

I shook my head no.

“I want to show you something.” He gestured for me to come join him. I rose up from the bed and followed him into the living room. There were two laptops set up on the coffee table, their glowing screens reading off chains of numbers and letters I didn’t understand. He sat down in front of them, which was when I noticed the ball of wires from before had been unfurled and was now plugged in from one computer to the next, and then into the wall.

“It’s amazing,” he began, tapping away on the keyboard, “just how much damage you can do with two computers, some fiber optic cables, and a fool who doesn’t know how to properly secure his network...”

I remained standing, confused by what he could be doing. All the lights in the room were off, and the computer screens’ glow reflected off the concavity of his face, giving him an especially eerie appearance.

“As soon as I strike this key, _bip!_ It will begin siphoning money from Cortês’ personal bank account. Shameful, that he chose to access it over his business’ network.” Silva shook his head, made a mockingly sad expression.

“The second time I strike this key, I will begin siphoning money from the hotel’s accounts. I suppose that’s not entirely his fault.” Silva made a _tsk_ noise and tapped his fingers against the coffee table.

“But, when his colleagues find Cortês dead at his own hands, they will be shocked. What could have driven such a great man to such despair? And then, when they look at his funds, and see how he gambled away his fortune, as well as his corporation’s money on poorly selling stocks... _oof!_ It will no longer seem so tragic to the mob lords.”

“...how is Cortês going to kill himself?” I asked, puzzled by his explanation of events.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He gave me a nasty smirk. “He could drink himself to death in a sudden binge... or maybe he’ll strangle himself with his hand around his cock, hmm?”

It really hit me then, what Silva was asking of me in exchange for my freedom. To take a life.

I hated Cortês. I wanted him to die.

But, could I do it myself?

Silva stretched out on the couch and yawned, holding his arms above his head. He looked a bit ridiculous like that, and I wanted to go sit down with him and feel him wrap his arms around me again, and forget about the gun he held to my head, or his entire scheme to kill Cortês.

“How do you expect me to...” I began, my voice shaking.

He waved for me to come over and sit with him, and so I went to the couch and awkwardly sat down.

“You go to Cortês. You tell him that you need your pills; that’s what’s causing your illness, is it not? And then when he tells you what you have to do to get them from him, you show him the gun.” As he spoke, his voice grew softer and softer, and I found myself having to lean in to hear him. “And what happens after that is all up to you.”

“...and if he calls for help?” I asked, apprehensive.

“I’ll cut off all the phone lines to the room. Don’t you concern yourself with that.”

I didn’t say anything in response to that for a moment. I just stared at the computers, which I didn’t understand. I could barely read at this time, and I wasn’t any better with numbers or codes.

“How can you do that?” I asked.

“Just by pressing a few keys. Simple.”

I felt sick to my stomach. He was so terribly casual about it all.

“Do I really have to do this?” I whispered, looking down at the floor.

“This is the only way you can free yourself.” He grabbed my left wrist and flipped it over, ran his thumb over the tattoo there. I nodded, tried to swallow down my anxiety.

Silva looked over to the phone on the side table.

“Shall we begin, darling?”

* * *

 

I stood in the doorway of Cortês’ office, actually shaking in fear. I suppose that this was a good thing, it made my apparent withdraw seem even more severe; bad enough that a client would send me up to the office to be fixed up, like a faulty piece of machinery. What I was concerned about, however, was the thought of the gun strapped to my thigh making noise as it shook in the holster that was far too loose on me.

Cortês had an ever present smug smile, like a cat with a mouse under it’s paw. He dressed in ugly tweed patterned suits, which he clearly thought were the height of fashion. I remembered when I met him, how his tan and creased face had seemed so kindly. Now the sight of him only made me feel repulsed. He favored a _hands on_ approach in the management of his business- especially in the management of his whores.

I’d been in this office so many times, I had every square foot committed to memory. The frosted glass walls, so we could see out, but no one could see in, the gleaming white floor that was cold under my often bare feet, and the rows of cabinets and drawers that flanked the walls, holding everything from business briefs to condoms and narcotics.

“Don’t just stand there, come here,” he said, standing in front of his desk and staring me down. I obliged, closing the door tightly behind me. I looked up to the security camera which hung over it. If what Silva said was true, the camera wasn’t seeing anything more than Cortês typing away at his computer right now.

He walked up so close to me, I was sure he would be able to hear my heart pounding against my rib cage. He put his hand on my shoulder and fiddled with my exposed bra strap, biting down on his lower lip.

“So, you need a little fix, do you? I hope you weren’t too bad for Mr. Silva. You’re damn lucky he bought you for the week. Maybe he likes his girls loose.” Cortês snorted at his own joke and cracked his knuckles, before reaching down for the fly of his pants.

I could barely breathe. I felt like my throat was about to close up. I didn’t want to do this; any of it.

“Well, you know how those things go around here. Nothing in life is free, after all. Now, be a good girl and sit on down.”

It was a reflex to me; I dropped down on my knees without a thought and parted my lips, waiting for him to grab my chin and force me to look in his eyes.

I didn’t care when he forced himself on me, or when he grabbed my hair and tugged at it like he was going to rip it out. I’d trained myself to be apathetic. I didn’t care when he almost choked off all my oxygen and left me sputtering for air. My jaw was on fire, but I blocked out the sensation. I almost forgot about Silva, about the gun resting between my legs, about the thought of any sort of freedom.

I didn’t care until he finished up, and I’d pushed myself up off the ground, marks on my palms and knees from the tiled floor. I watched as he strolled over to one of the cabinets, his fly still down, laughing from the daze of his orgasm. He grabbed an orange bottle of pills and studied it for a moment, shaking it around and smiling.

“This is twenty five capsules of Oxycontin, more than enough to get you through the week.” He handed me the bottle and grinned. “Just don’t take it all at once; you won’t be making any money when you’re dead.”

It was a phrase he’d used a thousand times, some sort of sarcastic little inside joke about the only thing I was good for that I was expected to smile and laugh at myself, and I’d never paid it any attention before. But this time... this time I listened. I understood. And I was furious.

I can’t explain properly just what happened after that, except to say that something inside of me, some spark of rage that had been fanned by my meeting Silva, chose that moment to burst into flame.

I remember quite clearly my foot connecting with his crotch, the way he screamed in agony when I aimed the heel of my pumps into his balls. He called me a dumb, dumb bitch, before I, clumsy with rage, managed to pull the gun out from under my dress.

He didn’t say a whole lot after that.

Some people are killers, both born and trained, and if you ask them to describe a murder, they’ll give you the cold hard details, the sequence of events step by step: the knife, the gun, the blood.

I am not one of those people.

There was nothing stylish or slick about the way I killed Cortês; there was nothing to it at all except for blind rage. I remember segmented moments: his body falling to the floor; forcing the gun into his mouth; the way the safety cap broke my nails when I fumbled with it; the feel of his teeth digging into my hand; the impact of my fist against his stomach; the gun scraping the back of his throat when I used it to stuff the pills down.

I assume he died of suffocation, because there was no way the drugs could have killed him so quickly. I was lucky then, I suppose, that one of the side effects of an Oxycontin overdose is respiratory failure. Not that I know what became of Cortês’ autopsy. Mob lords died every day, and whether he killed himself because he made a bad investment, or was killed over it didn’t really make any difference.

After I was sure he was dead, I just stood there for a minute or so, staring at his limp body. I was too stunned to feel a thing. I wasn’t even happy that he was dead, despite everything he had done to me. All I felt was kind of dirty.

Mechanically, I put the gun back into the holster, and walked out of the room, leaving Cortês to lay on the floor. He didn’t deserve any better.

* * *

 

When I told Silva that Cortês was dead, he didn’t say anything, just got up to go check for himself, I assume. I sat on the couch and held my knees up to my chest, tried to keep my breathing steady. I was hyperventilating and light headed. I didn’t want to think about what I had just done.

I’d just gone right back to Silva too. It didn’t even occur to me to ask him what was in store for me now.

Later that night, after Silva had returned, he’d gotten on his computer and showed me my name in Cortês’ database.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, clicking on my name with an almost childish smile. “Sévérine, purchased in April, 1997...” He frowned with the word _purchased._ “Well, that just won’t do, now will it?” I watched as he highlighted over my name and struck the “delete” key. I disappeared.

“Now then, that’s better, don’t you think?”

* * *

  
We left not very long after that. While there wasn’t any reason for anyone to suspect Silva and I right away, I didn’t think he wanted to be around when Cortês’ body was discovered.

Standing at the front desk in the lobby, wearing a ridiculously oversized pair of sunglasses, I watched as he signed a few forms and handed over a credit card. It occurred to me that he was paying the hotel with their own money, and I would have laughed, had I not been so nervous about leaving. Even though there was nothing to stop me now, it felt so foreign and strange.

I made the mistake of raising my hand to adjust the sunglasses, which were falling off my face, and the clerk saw my tattoo. He cleared his throat at Silva.

“Sir, that woman is hotel property, and you cannot leave with her...”

Silva said nothing, just reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of American hundred dollar bills. He placed them down on the counter, patted them twice, and said,

“I think this should be sufficient.”

I understood then, the sort of power Silva had. I saw him the way others must have seen him in that moment, with his expensive suit and his heavy briefcase, the impatient smile that spoke to the unfortunate consequences of not listening to him.

He was dangerous and unpredictable, with more money than he could spend and more people to get revenge on than he could bother to kill himself. But when he took my hand in his, and led me out of the hotel, I felt my heart quicken for the first time in a way that wasn't fear or anger.

Yes, Silva was a dangerous man indeed.

* * *

 

* * *


	4. somewhere i have never travelled

Chapter Four.

 

 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond  
any experience, your eyes have their silence:  
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,  
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

( _somewhere i have never travelled, e.e. cummings_.)

* * *

 

 

Leaving the hotel was dizzying; the noise and the movement of the city engulfed me and left me temporarily stunned. I had not been outside of the hotel in years. While I remembered going to the market when I was living in the brothel, the weekly trips through the slummier residential areas could not even slightly compare to the madness I found myself in. I was surrounded by a mass of well dressed people, all talking as loud as their voices could stand in an attempt to be heard over the wall of sound. Every building was lit up so brightly that I almost had to close my eyes, even with the sunglasses on. The casinos were adorned with swaths of neon lights, which I had seen from my window many times before. But, to be in the center of it all was so entirely different than simply observing.

Silva held onto my wrist the whole time we made our way through the crowd, both covering my tattoo and keeping me from getting pulled away in the tide of people. It struck me that we must have made a passable impression of a real couple. I was in the least sexualized dress I was able to grab; men liked opening fancy packages, and thus most of the clothing I owned was sliced up to the thigh and sheer everywhere except for the parts they were paying for. The dress in question was short, but otherwise decent, and a dark blue which matched the suit Silva was wearing.

Silva just about pushed me into a taxi. Due to the combination of my high heels and my head still spinning, I practically collapsed through the open car door. The briefcase I was holding landing on my knees with a resounding _smack_. The driver snickered at me.

"Too much fun this week?" he asked me, with a cheeky smile I could see from the mirrors.

"No, just enough," I replied.

Silva got into the car after putting his suitcase in the trunk; he never let anyone touch it, especially not bellhops or taxi drivers.

"Macau International Airport, please," Silva instructed.

I stared out the window through our drive, amazed by the city I had been immersed in this whole time, having never really understood it. We were speeding past buildings with fountains that spewed light instead of water, and crowds of people hopping from casino to casino, hoping to strike it rich tonight. I remembered as a child, looking upon the skyline from the windows of the brothel, or walking to the market with my face in the air to better see what lay only a few miles away. Even when I lived within it, I had never known the true scope of my surroundings.

Silva held onto my hand while I kept my eyes on the skyline. I didn't make any motion to pull away though. When I looked at him, I saw that he was leaning back in his seat, eyes shut. I realized that, other than the first night, I hadn't seen him sleep at all. He had dark circles under his eyes. I noticed, somewhat to my amusement, that even his eyelashes were the slightest bit blonde at the tips. His hair was obviously bleached, with a hint of black growing in. I wanted to ask why blonde, but now didn't seem like the time. What a strange man he was, I thought, holding onto my hand and spiriting me away beyond anything I had ever known.

* * *

It honestly didn't occur to me until we arrived at the airport, that I had no idea where we were going. Silva woke up suddenly when the car stopped, opening his eyes so abruptly that I wondered if he had even been asleep. He paid the cab driver with a fistful of American dollars, and declined any help with his bags. I got out of the car behind him and looked at the entrance to the airport, once again at a loss for words. All of these new places, I'd caught in snippets of sappy television dramas we were permitted to watch so we didn't kill ourselves out of sheer boredom. Yet, I never expected to be here, or anywhere beyond the hotel ever again, really.

Silva, having gotten his suitcase, looked at me and said,

"You must not leave my side for a second." He tapped the underside of my wrist. "If you're seen without an escort, you'll be brought right back."

I nodded in understanding. Even though Cortês was dead, there were undoubtedly a hundred pimps who were going to swoop in like vultures and collect the cash from the girls his hotel had kept.

"Where are we going?" I asked, as we walked into the building, keeping myself so close to Silva that we were touching. I noticed that he was limping again, dragging his left leg along.

"Ibiza, Spain. Have you heard of it?"

I shook my head no.

"It's an island in the Mediterranean. My boat is there."

He said this rather casually, as if it was completely normal to have a boat; though with the way he threw cash around, I suppose that for him it was rather normal.

We went through something called a gate-which looked nothing like one in my opinion-where Silva took out his passport stuffed with bills and walked me through. No one said a word.  
There was a lot of walking involved with the whole airport process, lots of walking and holding onto Silva for dear life, terrified of any sex traffickers that wanted to return me, in one piece or several. I silently cursed my shoes a few hundred times, as I stumbled along on blistered and sore feet. There were people everywhere, so many more than I had even seen in the lobby of the hotel, or on the streets of Macau.

* * *

We got onto a plane, which was stunningly large-much bigger than I expected. Silva guided me into a seat, as I was too stunned to know what to do. My head was pounding along with my sore feet, and standing upright was proving to be a challenge. Silva sat down next to me and straightened out his suit, before proceeding to close his eyes and fall asleep almost immediately. I assumed that he had been awake to fiddle around with his computers in order to enact our scheme against Cortês.

I sat down and tried my best to not explode with anxiety. I was entirely alone, save for Silva, who was dead to the world. What would I do if someone asked a question of me? I knew that me being on the plane was, at the very least, legally ambiguous, otherwise Silva wouldn't have been slipping so much money around. I could feel myself start to sweat, paired with my exhaustion and nausea. It had been three or four days since I'd taken anything, and the worst kind of side effects were starting to set in.

Withholding pills was always the punishment for the worst kinds of transgressions. I remembered how wretched a roommate of mine had looked after a week with no drugs. She'd bit a customer after two hours of unsuccessful fellatio.

While I was wondering just what that girl's fate had been, the plane started to roar and shake. I knew that at some point it was going to leave the ground, but I didn't expect it to be so jarring. Out of impulse, I buried my head into Silva's shoulder and held onto his arm.

I stayed like that the whole way through the take off, fear overriding my sense of dignity, which would have otherwise told me to sit up straight and to stop acting like an attention starved puppy. If Silva noticed, he didn't make any indication of it.

I sat upright and tried my best to get myself together once we were in the air. Looking around, I realized that we were in first class, something else which I only recognized from snippets of television.

A flight attendant in a stiff blue uniform, with her blonde hair pulled back so tight her skin looked stretched came over and smiled at me. The effect was somewhat frightening.

"Ms. Silva..." she began. I hid my surprise behind a series of coughs. "Why, bless you! What can I get you to drink, dear?"

I looked at Silva to save me, but he was still very much asleep. No asking for what he was having then.

"Um, just water, please," I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could.

"Of course."

She walked off to take the drink orders of the few other travelers who were awake.

"Water, Sévérine? How boring."

Silva was awake. Of course. I tried to come up with something witty to defend myself with, but I just stuttered.

When the attendant returned with the water, Silva smiled at her and ordered for the both of us.

"Two vodka martinis, if you would be so kind, dear."

I could see her cheeks grow slightly pink. Silva always had an effect on people, that much was certain.

"Right away, sir," she chirped, turning on her heels.

Silva made a great show of sighing and shaking his head.

"I suppose I'll have to start teaching you right away, hm?"

"What are you talking about?" I replied, lips pursed.

"Oh, don't be cross with me, darling. I told you, didn't I? Don't you worry, you'll be ordering drinks with the best of them soon enough."

I thought to question him again, just what was he talking about, but I thought better of the idea. Questioning Silva led only to vague answers, and soon I would be more confused than when we began talking.

The flight attendant brought our drinks in a matter of seconds. She and Silva made pleasantries-she batted her eyelashes and all, before Silva repeatedly thanked her for her services. I took a swig of my cocktail and immediately regretted it. The alcohol burned the whole way down, and matters only got worse when it hit my stomach. Silva, oblivious to my suffering, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying his drink, as well as his unobstructed view of our flight attendant's ass through the seats.

I nudged him in the side.

"Is there a bathroom on here?" I whispered. "I'm going to be sick."

"No, it really isn't top shelf liquor, is it?"

"What?"

"The quality leaves something to be desired, though I wouldn't go so far as to say that..."

"Mr. Silva, I'm going to throw up on your lap if you don't tell me where the bathroom is."

His bemused expression fell almost immediately.

"That door," he said, pointing in the direction of a bathroom sign, which I had somehow managed to miss.

I pushed past him and teetered down the aisle into the closet sized bathroom, and located the device with the most similarities to a toilet. I hadn't eaten in almost a day, and the results were unpleasant, to say the least.

"How long until we land?" I asked Silva, after I had managed to pull myself off the floor and get back into my seat.

"Oh, five hours or so," he said, seemingly unconcerned with my illness. The combination of the withdraw and his attitude towards me made me want to cry with frustration. I was once again reminded of the fact that my life was in the hands of a complete stranger.

And then I looked at my tray and saw that the cocktail had been replaced with a can of ginger ale.

"Thank you," I said, cracking the can open.

"I don't take unnecessary risks with Prada."

Despite everything, I started laughing at that. He shook his head, but I was pretty sure he was smiling.

I kicked my shoes off under the seat and closed my eyes.

"You know," I said, proceeding with caution. "I haven't taken any pills since I met you, and I think that's why I'm sick."

"You're not sick," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're getting better."

I decided to not press the issue further.

"You should read something. Take your mind off flying," he continued.

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, without embarrassing myself anymore than I already had in just the past few moments.

"Reading isn't a talent of mine," I finally said.

The truth was that I was close to illiterate, in both English and Mandarin. Menus and channel listings were the extent of my skill.

"Mhm. Along with ordering cocktails," he replied. "Well, there's no time like the present, now is there?"

Before I was able to protest, he'd caught the attention of the blonde flight attendant with a wave of his hands. She came rushing over with that same eager to please expression plastered across her face.

"Could I trouble you for a Macau newspaper?" he asked her, as charming as I'd ever seen him.

She brought one over, and Silva flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.

"Ah, this must be yesterday's news, hm? I'm sure there will be a new article on our friend come morning."

He passed the paper over to me. I recognized a picture of Cortês, though it seemed outdated. It was a mugshot.

"What's this?" I asked.

He smiled, like he was playing a trick on me.

"Why don't you tell me?"

I responded with a blank stare.

"I told you..."

"Sound it out," he said.

I shook my head.

"I'm not going to embarrass myself in front of you," I said, folding the paper back up and sitting it down on my tray.

"Of course not," he said. "After all, I would never let myself appear vulnerable to you."

I eventually fell asleep on the flight at some point, or at least pretended to sleep to avoid any more awkward conversations with Silva.

* * *

We arrived in Ibiza, where we were supposed to take a car to the port that Silva's boat was docked at, and then proceed to sail off to parts unknown.

That was not what happened.

We left the airport without incident-thanks to even more money shoved into Silva's passport-and got into a black car outside the airport, which appeared to be waiting for us. I didn't ask. The car drove us for about half an hour, until we came to the harbor where Silva's boat _should_ have been docked. However, it was mysteriously absent.

Silva pulled his phone from his jacket and dialed. A few moments later, he was barking orders in a language I didn't understand. I had never seen him angry before, and it was somewhat frightening.

He snapped the phone shut and said something incomprehensible to the driver. I looked at him and waited for an explanation.

"The crew is late. We're getting a hotel room."

* * *

  
After Silva's things had been safely deposited at the hotel, he decided that he was going to, "take me to dinner;" some sort of grand gesture which I didn't fully understand. Part of me was still waiting for him to announce that it was time for me to strip naked and spread my legs.

We walked through the town to the restaurant. It was the most wonderful thing in the world, to be able to just walk down a street again. I hadn't done anything of the sort in four years. The wind coming off the harbor was chilly, but I could have cared less. I wanted to dance down the sidewalk, through the throngs of people all speaking a language I didn't understand, past the gleaming white buildings, and right into the water. I almost knocked into others on the street, looking at the sky, trying to take in everything at once.

Silva didn't hold onto me. I think he knew better than that. I needed to believe that I was truly free, if only for a moment.

"It's beautiful here," I said to him.

"And now I know what your smile looks like," was his sole reply.

* * *

  
The restaurant was the sort of place where there's one price for everything, and the menu is written in spirals rather than words, or so it seemed. Not that it would have helped me any if the writing was clear, as Silva had pointed out in the plane. The interior was open to the street, and I could smell the sea salt even while inside. The dining room was dark at nightfall; the tables were each decorated with their own lamp. The ceiling had a high arch and the windows were adorned with dried flowers and plants. We were isolated from the rest of the patrons by several empty tables, their white cloths almost glowing in the light of the lamps. I assume Silva had requested to be seated in the corner-he spoke to our server in Catalan, a language I did not understand. He ordered for me, a small mercy. Our waiter, dressed in a stiff and dour tuxedo, brought out beautiful stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine. Silva poured my glass and handed it to me.

"Are you feeling well, darling?"

I took a sip and nodded my head.

"All that is behind you now, hm? This is a new life," he proclaimed, raising his glass slightly up in the air, like he wanted to make a toast.

"Where do you plan on taking me, Mr. Silva?" I asked.

"I'm not _taking_ you anywhere," he corrected. "Consider this an invitation."

"And what would you do, if I said _no_ ?" I asked, feeling emboldened by the fresh air.

"I would miss your company."

I nodded, satisfied with that answer.

"I possess a piece of property off of the Canary Islands. Once my boat's crew is sober enough to sail, we will make our way there."

Dinner was served halfway through our conversation. Silva had ordered some sort of meat drenched in a cream sauce, which I attempted to pick at.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Silva?"

"You ask for permission now?" he laughed.

"Is our dinner tonight being paid for by Mr. Cortês?" I asked, with just a tinge of sarcasm in my voice.

Silva frowned slightly and took a drink before answering my question.

"Would you like to know what it is I do, Sévérine? Hmm?" He nodded to answer for me. The gesture was somewhat unnerving. "When someone like our friend Cortês makes poor choices, he must pay the price. I simply am _collecting_ on his sins. Most times, I am asked to perform my services on behalf of another party. Though, at times, it is more... personal. "

"So, is that where all your money comes from?"

"Ooo, so you can bite. I like this!" We were playing a game; I understood that now. "One way or another, bad deeds will be punished. There's no harm in profiting off of fate, don't you think?"

"I suppose not," I replied. Silva nodded once again, and poured more wine into my glass.

"Have another drink, won't you, dear?"

"So I can ask you more questions?" I said, laughing.

"Of course." He opened his arms wide.

"Alright then," I said. "Why do you have an island?"

"Privacy."

"Mhm."

"Do you not believe me, Sévérine? Why, I'm hurt." He held his hand to his heart and sighed.

"I think you have... multiple reasons for all of your actions, Mr. Silva."

"You would be correct."

"Though, I don't believe I'll ever know what those reasons are."

"Perhaps." He looked rather pleased with me, tapping his fingers against the table and smiling.

"Just one more question," I said.

"Yes?"

"Why did you take me with you?" My voice cracked halfway through the sentence. I bit down on my bottom lip, because I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

Silva looked thoughtful for a moment, took his time in replying.

"I could see that you still wanted to live."

Silva had at least one ulterior motive for everything he did, and I know that saving me from the hotel was no different. But, when he looked at me as he spoke those words, I knew there was truth to it.

When we left the restaurant, it was very dark outside, and the breeze was even colder than before. I didn't care though; I was too busy relishing every second of fresh air. I looked up in the sky, and saw stars for the first time in four years.

I could have wept, they were so beautiful.

"Stop," I said to Silva, not even bothering to ask. "I want to look at the sky."

* * *

 

There wouldn't have been anything objectionable about the hotel in Ibiza, if it was not for the fact that our room only had one bed. I was close to sweating by just looking at it. I wanted to believe that Silva was different, that he didn't want to use me for sex, but I wouldn't allow myself to believe it.

Silva went into the bathroom, I presumed to remove his facial prosthetics and to get out of his suit. I slipped my dress off as quickly as I could, and put on the bathrobe I'd taken from Macau.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for Silva. I was done with this anxiety; I was going to simply ask him what he wanted from me.

The door opened, and before he even walked out into the bedroom, I had blurted out,

"Are you expecting me to sleep with you?"

I wasn't sure how I expected him to respond, but what I truly didn't anticipate at all was his laughing at me, like it was a great big joke. My entire face flushed red. I didn't understand why he thought it was so terribly amusing.

"Why, you're just a child," he finally spoke. "Of course not."

I looked up at him, still blushing. I felt so incredibly relieved in that moment. I didn't quite understand what he meant when he said I was a child, but I was thankful for it all the same.

"You sound different," I said, "When your face isn't set." It wasn't really necessary to voice my observation, but I just wanted to change the subject.

"So it is."

He stood awkwardly over the bed, leaning with his hands folded behind his back.

"Can you tell me what happened to you?" I asked. I'd already gotten the sexual questions out of the way, and I supposed I wanted to get everything over with tonight.

Silva made a noise akin to a sigh, and sat down on the bed next to me.

"Do you want me to tell you a story, Sévérine?" he asked, though I didn't need to reply.

"There was a boy named Tiago, from a place in Spain called Gibraltar, though it's really a part of England. He lived quite happily for some time, until he was about ten years old. His mother had been doing something so simple, taking a basket of laundry down the stairs. And then she slipped, and fell, and _oof._ His mother was no more, and his father couldn't bear to live without her. So he packed Tiago off to spend a weekend with his grandmother, and then drove his car off the road. This was not to the liking of his grandmother, who thought herself too old to be raising a child, and was convinced God was somehow punishing her.

When Tiago was eighteen, he left Spain for England and tried to join the military-what else could an orphan with no prospects do? However, upon taking the entrance exams, Tiago found that he had more prospects than he initially believed. He was chosen for the secret service-like a spy novel, almost. Without any family to anchor him to England, he was sent to Hong Kong... where he met a lovely woman whom he cared for very much. But, she cared less about him than he knew, and offered Tiago's life up to the Chinese government in exchange for several other agents. And so Tiago was tortured for many months, until he tried to give in by using the suicide pill he had been given for such a situation."

He paused to clear his throat, and I took in everything he had just said. Was Silva talking about himself?

"And it worked, in some ways. Tiago is dead now."

Yes, he was.

My eyes stung from tears which I would hold back once again. It wasn't that I pitied him, or even felt sad; it was an emotion stronger than that.

"I understand now," I whispered.

And I did. We had something in common, Silva and I.

"You should rest," he said, laying down. I followed suit, and looked up at the ceiling. Silva's story was repeating over and over again in my head.

"She took you in, didn't she? You thought she was going to take care of you? And then she threw you to the wolves," I mused aloud. "She used you."

"I do not wish to speak about this any longer."

If I had known the sorts of thoughts I was beginning to plant in Silva's mind, I would have stopped speaking. But, blissfully unaware of what I was doing, I kept talking.

"And she let others use you too. She didn't protect you like she promised."

Silva grabbed me around the waist. I gasped for air, momentarily stunned. It felt all too familiar.

"Sévérine. _Darling._ No more."

I choked on my own surprise, and he loosened his grasp on me.

"I'm sorry; please don't..."

"Just sleep." He cut me off mid-apology. "Just go to sleep."

I laid there, motionless for a few minutes, letting my eyelids grow heavy on their own and begin to close. As I drifted off, I could faintly feel him disentangle his arms from around me, and begin to stroke my hair. The last thing I heard before falling asleep was Silva's throaty whisper-the way he sounded when his face wasn't properly put together.

"Shh, don't be afraid."

I was trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As there is such a wonderful Skyfall community on tumblr, if any of you would like to get in touch with me over there, my blog is overacardboardsea.tumblr.com  
> I'd love to talk *feels* with all of you. <3


	5. Sonnet XVII

Chapter Five.

 

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,  
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.  
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.  
  
( _Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII)_

* * *

 

I woke up in the strange hotel room, all tangled up in Silva. The view from the window was pitch black; nowhere near morning. My stomach was churning like I’d drank a bottle of poison. I pulled my arms out from underneath Silva and stumbled off to the bathroom, for what felt like the hundredth time since I’d left the hotel. I found myself regretting that I’d shoved all those pills down Cortês’ throat without pocketing a few for myself.

The bathroom was small enough to be claustrophobic, and when I sat down on the floor, the soles of my feet were touching the bathtub. The light felt far too bright, and my head was once again pounding with a burning sort of pain.

Once the foul ordeal was over with, I pushed myself up off the floor and looked over to the sink counter for a bottle of mouthwash. The sink, too, was miniscule, and there were no cabinets. All of Silva’s things were sitting in a neat row behind the faucet: three pieces of plastic, a case which I assumed held false teeth, and most interesting to me, four orange pill bottles. While Silva had already proven my near illiteracy, I could put a pharmacist to shame when it came to prescription drugs. Diazepam, oxycodone, olanzapine, and naproxen. I recognized the first two very well: muscle relaxants and pain killers. The others weren’t familiar at the time. Had I known that olanzapine was an anti-psychotic, I might have understood the incident with the gun in Macau a little better. Naproxen is an anti-inflammatory drug, which you could probably find in your bathroom.

I studied the bottles for a moment. If I just slipped one, I’d feel a lot better. Would Silva notice? It really wasn’t a good idea for me to just stop taking them all at once anyway. I could have had a seizure-I’d seen it happen more than once.

I picked up the bottle of oxycodone and shook it. It felt almost full. Surely, just one...

Silva picked this time to enter the bathroom. One of his infuriating habits was being able to fake sleep until it was convenient. There wasn’t really enough room in there for both of us, so he stood in the doorway and stared at me.

“You,” he said, his voice very low and stern, “should put that down.”

He scared me so badly, I dropped the bottle into the sink. I wasn’t looking at him, but I could see his reflection behind me in the mirror. Mouth sunk in, shirtless, and covered in all manner of scars and burns, Silva was an intimidating figure, especially in the middle of the night when I was sick and exhausted.

“That’s better.”

I was actually shaking again, sick and scared, and just completely fed up with everything. I felt like Silva had been holding out on me, watching me suffer without saying a thing, that he had the pills. I was reminded again of how he was a complete stranger to me, and while he had been kind to me at times, he was also quite possibly insane.

“Why,” I asked, “do you get to have them, but I don’t?”

Silva scoffed at me, and lifted his hand to his face, illustrating the sunken skin.  

“Because,” he said, sounding rather irritated, “I’m in pain.”

“And you think I’m not?” I spat out, before I could even think about what I was saying. I expected Silva to be angry at me for that, but instead he just sighed, as if he was rather exasperated.

“I could give you those now, and you would feel better. And then you would need more, or you would get sick again, yes? So then you would have to ask me for them again. That sounds familiar, does it not?”

I just stood there, watching Silva speak in the mirror. He had a point, of course. An infuriating, but valid point.

He extended his arm for me to hand him the bottle. I plucked it out of the sink, and gave it to him.

“I’m not going to use these,” he rattled the pills inside the bottle. “To control you.” He put the bottle in the pocket of his pants and turned around to walk away.

His back looked worse than his chest, I noticed. Third degree burns. A girl had dropped a huge pot of boiling water on herself at the brothel once. It hadn’t looked nearly as bad as Silva’s scars when she had healed up, but I remember she was pulled from the lineup of girls and spent the rest of her days cleaning and doing the worst sort of chores imaginable. She had done it on purpose, of course.

I followed Silva out of the bathroom, turning the light off and shutting the door tight. I didn’t want to think about it any longer. He stopped in front of the bed, and leaned in to give me a kiss on the forehead.

“New life, hm?” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

Silva sat back down on the bed and motioned for me to join.

“So,” I began, sitting down, “we’re sailing to your island tomorrow?”

Silva nodded in affirmation.

“It’s not terribly grand, though the house has more than enough rooms for you to take your pick of.”  
  
I actually laughed at that, just from surprise. I’d never had a room to myself in my life.

“You’re whisking me away from my life of prostitution and off to your private island? Really?” My disbelief was evident. Even I knew this was a cliche’.  
  
“You could say it like that.”

“They used to tell us if we were extremely accompanying and compliant, that a man might choose to buy us and marry us.” The lie made me shake my head. “As if any of them could ever see us as their equal. If anything, they would buy a girl and shove her off into their own personal harem; some of the really rich guests.”

“I don’t have a harem, if you were concerned,” Silva said. “Your skills would be put to waste in such a place, anyway.”

“What skills?”

“You are beautiful and dangerous. What more is necessary?”

“I wasn’t dangerous until you gave me a gun,” I said.

“This is where you are wrong, Sévérine . Abuse can make anyone dangerous... survivors are the most dangerous sort of people.”

I sensed that perhaps Silva was talking about himself too.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. What sort of story?” I replied. I wasn’t prepared to learn just what abuse Silva survived. Not while I was sick and sleepy.

“It’s an old story. It’s about a woman from a very long time ago. Her name was Theodora; does that sound familiar at all?”

I shook my head.

“I wouldn’t think so. It’s a shame that she’s been largely forgotten. But, that is because history is written by frightened men. And Theodora frightened them terribly. She was a prostitute, who so captivated the emperor of the Byzantine empire, he broke the law to marry her. This was a long time ago, more than a thousand years. The Emperor Justinian and Theodora ruled as equals, and as the empress, Theodora outlawed sex slavery and made rape punishable by death.”

“And what did she do to her former owners?”

Silva put his hand over mine. I could see the flickers of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“History may have been too afraid to write that down. I imagine that she cut their cocks off herself. Ouch.”

I giggled in spite of myself. There was something intoxicating about the prospect of that sort of revenge, after having had it on Cortês.     

* * *

 

We left for the docks the next day, where Silva’s boat had arrived, finally, he pointed out with an air of extreme exasperation.  
  
“You find these people from the most war torn regions of the world and give them an honest job...” he rambled on in the taxi, speaking English as to not arouse the suspicion of the driver, a thin and pinched looking man with an impractically long mustache, “and then they repay you by spending all their wages on liquor and forgetting when to sail out.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, by I nodded along in agreement. I was eating a bagel I’d snatched from the lobby of the hotel in the morning, causing the driver to yell something at me in Spanish which I didn’t understand, but I assumed meant I wasn’t supposed to eat in the car. Silva said something back in a clipped, angry voice, and the driver shook his head and waved his hand in the air.

“Did I do something?” I asked.

“Nothing at all, dear.”

We arrived at the docks without further complication, and Silva took off out of the car to get his things before the driver tried to touch them, which was sure to cause more bickering I wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

I got out of the car and looked around. We were at a sandy beach with a long wooden dock jutting out into the sea. It was a little cold outside, so I had one of Silva’s black suit jackets on over my dress, which was a floor length green cocktail dress that looked entirely out of place here. I was probably going to get sand on it and ruin it. Not that I was particularly attached to the thing.

The sky and the water were the most perfect blue I could imagine. There wasn’t a single cloud in view, and the sun was beating down on the rows and rows of white boats, making them almost glow. The dock was covered in scattered boxes and crates, and people were walking about everywhere, loading and unloading, or just standing and talking. 

Silva was having some sort of disagreement with the driver about payment, and looked over to me to say, “You see the biggest boat? That one is mine. Go and wait for me in front of it.”

Of course he had the biggest boat at the dock. I smiled a bit to myself and walked down the wooden planks, taking my time and savoring the fresh air once again. Ibiza was absolutely beautiful, and I didn’t want to leave. I like to imagine sometimes how Silva and I could have stayed there forever and avoided the entire mess which befell us.

I found the largest boat and sat down a few feet from it on top of a box. There were five men milling around the boat. All of them were dressed in militia like clothing: cargo pants, vests, chunky combat boots. I also noticed the pistols strapped to their belts. They ranged in age from early twenties to about forty, I guessed. Two of the men were African, and the other three appeared to be European. They noticed me, making glances over in my direction, and I felt my pulse quicken.

Men still make me nervous to this day, and especially then, I was frightened by them. My sudden feeling of freedom dissipated entirely, and I might as well have been back in the hotel. One of the men made some crack to the other four, and they all laughed. He started to approach me. This man was about thirty. He was European-possibly from Russia-and had a thick scar cutting down from his eyebrow to the top of his cheek.

He began speaking to me in a language I didn’t understand, and I tensed up. He chuckled at me and shouted something over his shoulder at the other men. I tried to keep my breathing steady. He started speaking again, in English this time.

“You understand me now, pretty girl?”

I nodded, not sure of how else to react. I didn’t want to anger him by not responding. He yelled something back to the other men.

“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing, standing in front of a buncha sailors like us? That’s just asking for trouble, don’t you know? Unless you like trouble.” He grinned.

“I don’t...” I began, trying to keep my hands steady. I could feel my legs shaking. I willed them to stay still, but he’d already seen.

“I bet you love trouble.”

I saw the remaining men standing by the boat all make faces, eyes widening. None of them said anything though.

The man talking to me smiled and extended his hand to brush over my chest. He tightened his grasp, and inhaled deep.

I saw Silva enter my peripheral vision, and almost passed out from relief. The men by the boat were laughing, but still nervous.

Silva walked up slowly, standing directly to the side of the man, where he didn’t see him, too distracted.

“Ivan,” Silva said, his voice very low.

The man stopped touching me and spun around to face Silva, who grabbed his left hand and twisted it the entire way around, until the bones made a sickening crunch. Ivan yelped.

“The next time you touch her,” Silva whispered in his ear, loud enough for me to hear, “I suggest you do so with an appendage you don’t mind losing.”

“Yes, sir,” Ivan choked out.

In retrospect, Silva was setting me up for that to happen, so he could make a big show of defending me, and hammer it into the heads’ of his crew that I was his, and his alone. But, all I saw then was Silva being the sort of protector figure that I needed him to be, both to keep me from fearing the outside world, and to keep me from fearing him. He walked over to the rest of his crew, and I followed close behind him. Ivan scuttled along, nursing his broken wrist and staying far away from me. I noticed how the crew all took a step back from me when I stepped closer to them. It felt good, honestly. Even if they were truly afraid of Silva, not myself, I liked that little bit of power I had.

Silva clapped his hands together.

“Will we be standing here all day, or are we setting sail?”

I watched as they all mumbled their, “yes, sir’s” and scurried up the boarding steps. It was almost comical, this group of commandos reduced to schoolboys in front of one man.

Silva turned to me and shook his head.

“Good help is terribly hard to find. My apologies.”

I nodded, stunned.    
  
“After you, darling.” Silva motioned for me to take the stairs up to the deck of the boat. I took a few tentative steps forward. “I’m right behind you,” he said.

“Alright,” I said, soft. “Just because you’re here.”

* * *

  
“Sévérine is a fitting name for you, don’t you think so?” Silva asked. We were eating lunch, sitting out on the deck of the boat. Surrounding us was nothing but ocean. The crew was keeping their distance from me, especially Ivan, whom I caught a glimpse of skulking around and cradling his left wrist with his right hand.

I shrugged.

“It wasn’t always my name. I picked it off a list.”

“Mhm,” Silva said. “I sympathize.”

“I suppose you would. I used to be named Xui Li. I prefer Sévérine . It sells better, anyway.”

“Do you know what it means?” Silva asked.

I shook my head no.

“Serious. And you’re a rather serious girl.”

“Am I?” I asked, a hint of a smile on my lips.

“Far more serious than any other I have met.”

“Is that a good thing?”     

Silva leaned in across the little table, until he was barely an inch away from my face.  
  
“It is. A very good thing.”    

He leaned back into his seat and folded his hands across his lap. I noticed that Silva had barely touched his food, the same as in the restaurant. I assumed it had something to do with the rest of his physical damage.

“Tell me about Xui Li,” he said.

I balked for a moment, not sure where to begin. I hadn’t thought about the girl I used to be before the hotel in so long.

“Xui Li was the daughter of a prostitute from Slovakia and one of her clients. The mother wasn’t a slave to a brothel, but it some ways it may have been better if she was, because then she would have at least had a roof over her head. The child was left to an orphanage, and then sold to a brothel at seven to do housework and eventually serve as a prostitute. This didn’t happen, however. Instead, she was sold to pay off a debt. And then she became Severine.”

Silva put both of his hands over mine.

“And then Sévérine met Raoul Silva.”

“And nothing was ever the same again.”

* * *

   
We sat on the deck for what must have been hours. I didn’t have any interest in going down below-I wasn’t a fan of cramped spaces for a number of reasons. Silva talked most of the time, telling me tales of ancient empires and fallen kings. We went the whole way through Nero,  Charlemagne, Louis XVI, up to Churchill and Franco. He loved history then.  
  
Nero was mad and Charlemagne was kind, Louis was a fool and Franco was a tyrant. Churchill didn’t strike his interest enough to warrant much explanation.

“But, history is written by the victors, my darling, don’t you ever forget that. And the victors are always afraid of their past.”  

He told me a story about a poor little girl who herded sheep and found a wounded lion. When she came to the lion’s aid, her sheep disappeared, and her master beat her. She went to find the lion again, and found that he was really a cursed prince, as those sort of stories are ought to go, bound into his lion form by an evil giant.

The prince needed a lock of the kingdom princess’ hair to sew into a cloak to break the curse, so the girl became a maid to the princess and dressed herself up to be allowed into the castle. She begged the princess for a lock of her hair to free the prince, and the princess agreed on the terms that she would marry the prince.

The girl agreed, and gave the giant the cloak. The giant told her that to free the prince, she had to kill and burn the lion, and the prince would arise from the ashes. She was fearful, but the lion insisted. So, the girl slayed the lion and burned his body, and sure enough, the prince did rise from the ashes, and he and the girl were married, and she became a queen.  

“So,” I asked, when he completed telling the story. “Is Raoul Silva the lion, or the prince?”

Silva laughed at that.

“Neither, darling. It’s just an old fairy tale my grandmother used to tell me.”

I don’t believe anything is just an old story.  
  
We stayed on deck long enough for the sky to grow dark; for him to show me Orion with Rigel and Betelgeuse. I never knew that the stars had names until then.  
  
I laid my head down on his shoulder and looked out on the ocean. My chest felt heavy with an emotion I couldn’t articulate. I suppose it was a culmination of everything: the attention and little bits of affection he bestowed upon me; the power I felt that I had when I stood by him. I spent my entire life starved for love. I was grasping for anything close to it.

I feel as though I need to justify why I fell in love with him. That I should explain to you that I was young and stupid, and didn’t realize what a threat he was. But, I loved him for a long time after I learned who he really was.

You’ll just have to judge me yourself.    

* * *

   

“You like the way a gun feels in your hands, don’t you?” he whispered in my ear as I was falling asleep, still sitting outside and leaning into him, his arm around my waist. “I’ll show you how to use it. How to kill someone without even pulling the trigger.”

“Now why,” I asked, sleepy and confused, “would I want to do that?”

“There are quite a few bad men out there, Sévérine . Who think that they’ll be writing history.”  
  
“Then I think we should write it instead,” I yawned.

“We’ll do just that. Starting tomorrow when we reach land.”

“You’re a dangerous man, you know?” I said, moving in closer to him.

“Why would you say such a thing?” Silva laughed.

I wasn’t thinking when I answered: I was overwhelmed and tired and finishing up the last few hours of withdraw, and what came out of my mouth was so terribly honest, I wanted to shove it back in the moment I said it.    

“Because, I could love you.”

Silva didn’t say anything for awhile; maybe he was busy calculating now how much he could get out of me and how little affection he would have to give me in return. My idealistic side would like to think he was at least a little surprised.

“So you could,” was the final response I got. I sensed that this was the end of our conversations on kings and Spanish folklore, and the names of the stars. I got up and found the door to below deck. Silva stayed outside.

* * *

 

Silva’s island was a paradise; he had not fully explained to me just how beautiful it was. It was small, certainly, but I hardly noticed, I was so entranced by it’s beauty. I’d never seen water so blue in the sunlight, glowing almost turquoise. The sand was shiny white, and the beaches were dotted with coconut trees. Having been kept inside for the past four years, I wanted to lay down on the beach and stay there forever.

The house was in the center of the island. It wasn’t enormous, but it was fairly large and sat at the top of a small hill, giving it an imposing air. The house was solid white, with a flat roof and a row of arches preceding the front door. The second floor was smaller than the first, with a balcony which jutted out over the front of the house.

There were steps built into the hill up to the house, otherwise I probably would have teetered over in my shoes, trying to dig through the sand. Silva held my hand the whole walk up, and the guards seemed to keep an extra distance from me. They trudged along behind us, having traded their inconspicuous pistols for automatic weapons.

“Welcome to my home, Sévérine,” Silva said, when we reached the front door, extending his arms out in some grand gesture. “You should go inside and find which room you’ll be staying in.”  
   
I nodded in response, and took my first step towards the door.  
   
“Do be quick about it, darling. There is no more time for resting. I have so very much to teach you.”

    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the action begins! I feel like I've taken a terribly long time building up to the direction I want to go with this story, but I wanted to establish this strange sort of relationship between Sévérine and Silva before I really got into the main plot. 
> 
> There's some further reading and pictures of locations from this chapter on my tumblr.  
>  _http://captain-tots.tumblr.com/post/39666880577/no-rest-chapter-five-notes_


	6. Risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the ridiculous delay between chapters: I think in every long project, there's a point where you hit a wall, and whether or not you're able to overcome that determines the fate of the story. I've been dealing with some family crises, and that really impacted my ability to write. But, I'm back, and inspired once more. =) 
> 
> Moving on, I wanted there to be an underlying theme in this chapter about the power and control dynamic between Silva and Sévérine : how he controls her without her knowing, and how he pushes her to the limit and then knows just what to say to get her back into puppy love submission.

Chapter Six.

And then the day came,

when the risk

to remain tight

in a bud

was more painful

than the risk

it took

to blossom.

(Anaïs Nin, _Risk_.)

* * *

 

 I have this dream, many nights, and it's always the same. I've heard that you often dream about the home you grew up in, and I suppose that house on the island was more of my _home_ than anywhere else I ever laid my head.

In this dream, I wake up from my sleep to find myself transported back to my old bedroom on the island. I'm staring up at the white vaulted ceiling, the bumpy stucco walls. I step out of bed and press the soles of my feet against the cool hardwood floors, and drink in the smell of ocean air from my open window. The lights are off, but I can make out shapes and some detail by the moonlight. I slip the white comforter back on to the bed, smoothing out any wrinkles. Then I pace to my door and slowly push it open, entering the narrow hallway of the second floor. It's lined with red wooden doors, each leading to a guards' room. I walk heel to toe, as quiet as possible. I don't want to be found, although there's no reason I wouldn't be allowed here. Yet, I feel a pressing need to remain undiscovered. 

At the end of the hall is _his_ room, signified by the sturdy double doors that climb the whole way up the wall. I clutch the doorknob hard enough to leave red welts in my palm and pull the door open. It's dark in here, illuminated only by the blinking green and yellow lights of server towers and the luminescent glow of sleeping monitors. In the midst of this mess of technology is his bed, the dramatic blood red canopy which allows him to sleep in darkness, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze that eeks through his cracked windows. I hold myself tall and approach his bedside, pulling the curtain to the side. 

And in this dream, the bed is always empty.

There's just a Silva-shaped impression left within the comforter, a reminder that yes, someone was here, and no, you didn't find them in time. 

I suppose my subconscious is trying to tell me something. 

* * *

I loved that house though, loved it with every fiber of my being. I loved the way the breeze flowed through every hall and into every single corner, filling my nose with the smell of the sea, tickling my skin. The breeze caressed my ears; it whispered to me, “ _Silva. Silva._ ” 

Everything was so spacious and bright, in complete contrast with every other dark and cramped place I had been forced to call home. The ceilings were high enough that I felt like I could just jump and float away. The foyer opened into a staircase, which led up to the second floor, but the immediate entrance of the house was two stories of just air and light. When I first entered, I could only look up and gasp. There were no doors on the ground floor; one room led into another. There was lots of space and very little furniture. A TV mounted on the wall played international news at all hours of the day, a few couches were clustered about bookshelves. A section of the house resembling a kitchen had an open flame stove and a massive steel refrigerator that the guards were constantly poking their heads in and out of. 

My room on the upper floor was lined with shelves full of history books. Silva seemed intent on me learning to read. I remember stacks of newspapers laying on top of the clothes dresser, and the musty smell of yellowed pages from old texts when I cracked open their covers and sounded out syllable by syllable, Hannibal trudging over the alps with 37 elephants in tow—I didn't know what elephants were, so I would have to drag out the letter “E” encyclopedia and trace my fingers over the tops of the pages until I found “Elea-Eleusis,” and then find the picture of the gray animal with the big nose which I had seen before. I just didn't think to name it in my mind, after all, what use did elephants have to me? Perhaps they would have done me more good than poor Hannibal. 

Although, to the Romans, there was no _poor Hannibal._ That fascinated me about history; there were no good men or bad men. Just dead men.

I loved the mythos more than the pure history; all the known world going to war over Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. I did think, however, that a great deal of hardship could have been avoided, had someone simply asked Helen where she wanted to be.

I didn't care for the television much, because it was too frightening. There was always fire and machine guns, people running in the streets, and men in dark suits discussing it all with terrible stern faces, as if they didn't know of all the death and destruction that was occurring right outside their doors. I would have rather read about it in a book, many years later. 

_Antilochos was first to kill a chief man of the Trojans, valiant among the champions, Thalysias' son, Echepolos. Throwing first, he struck the horn of the horse-haired helmet, and the bronze spearpoint fixed in his forehead and drove inward through the bone; and a mist of darkness clouded both eyes and he fell as a tower falls in the strong encounter._

Were the Trojans evil, because the man they fought under stole another man's wife? Did they deserve to die? It didn't matter anymore, because had Antilochos and company not gotten them, age or disease would have done them in thousands of years ago.

I wondered if years and years from now, people would think Cortês was an evil man, or if he would even be remembered at all. I found the newspaper Silva had flaunted at me on the plane ride buried in the pile of newsprint on my dresser. 

_Businessman Vasco Cortês Under Investigation in Insider Trading Scandal._

The mugshot was old. He had been arrested on the tax evasion charges years before—when he turned Silva in to save his own pathetic hide.

I found another copy of The Macau Business News a few days later. Silva liked to leave newspapers in my room while I was asleep, before he locked himself in his bedroom to type away on his computer with a manic determination for hours. The article I was looking for was not in the finance section, but the obituaries. 

_Local Business Owner Vasco Cortês Found Dead._

I didn't read any further. I'd let the worms judge him.

* * *

When I wasn't reading, I'd wander around the island by myself. It took an hour to leave the house, circle the beach, and find myself back at the front door. I liked to wade ankle deep in the ocean, startling tiny schools of guppies and stepping down on hard seashells. While anyone else might have felt trapped—marooned even—I thought I was free. No one made any demands of me, the guards kept their distance, and I was free to lay outside in the sand and feel the sun on my skin for the first time in years. 

Silva came and found me one night when I fell asleep on the beach and was gone from the house for hours and hours. He scooped me up in a bridal carry and kissed my forehead. 

“I was worried you tried to swim away, darling,” he said with a smile. 

“Why would I ever do that?” I asked, laughing in a daze. 

“Perhaps you were sick of walking on land?” 

“No,” I replied. “No, I could never be sick of this.” 

* * *

Silva would be gone for days at a time, taking off with the most cursory of goodbyes. A peck on the forehead and a farewell, off to God only knew where. At times I was concerned he would bring back more doe eyed teenage prostitutes-could I really be the only one? But, he never did. On one occasion he came back after almost a week with a metal brace on his bad leg, saying he would no longer limp once he took the brace off. 

He left again weeks after his leg was repaired, and returned with a new mouthpiece made of one piece of integrated plastic, rather than a mishmash of dental apparatuses. Once he put it in, I never saw him without it. No more waiting for him to pull out the pieces at night, listening to him spit blood into the sink and the swish of a flask. 

I couldn’t forget the metal under his skin though. That hole in his face, it was what brought us together, strangely enough. All these trips and alterations made me nervous. I was worried that once he was fixed, he wouldn’t want any more broken things around. 

Of course, he wasn’t really fixed at all. Not on the inside. But I didn’t understand that yet. 

I was desperately in love with him, in that sort of fanatical way that teenagers are ought to fall in love, made even more severe by my deliverance from Macau. I lingered in his doorway on days he left it open while he was working, waiting for him to call me over to sit in his lap while he kept his eyes on the computer screen, one arm over my knee so he could reach the mouse.

It was all very strange, this mixture of seduction and chastity. He’d put his hands on my waist and hips and face, never my breasts or thighs. I slept in the same bed as him some nights by his request, arms and legs tied in knots around each other, never daring to do anything more.   


I couldn’t hope to understand him, but I made poor attempts at doing so. I pressed him for an explanation further than “ _you’re just a child._ ” That had never mattered to anyone else.

He, only half paying attention to me, looked up from his keyboard and sighed, as if he was terribly bored with trying to explain what should have been a simple concept.

“The moment I saw you, I knew you were a scared little girl. There’s nothing sexual about a little girl, no matter what she’s dressed up in.”

“Then, why do you like me so much?” I asked, smiling sly. That was a trick he’d taught me-how to keep your face from matching your thoughts. So, of course he saw through it. 

“I enjoy the company of beauty.” 

He punctuated the statement with a raise of his eyebrows and a nod in my direction. 

“And why are you so concerned?”

“Not knowing your intentions scares me,” I said, being honest. 

“There’s more you have to learn yet,” was the cryptic response I got. 

He liked saying things like that, with a little flourish at the end of his voice, a snide smile and a pat on the knee. And I would move myself closer to his skin, and his arm would snake around my waist, and he would whisper something in my ear, 

“ _Pretty girl, you’re such a pretty girl.”_

I never wanted him to let me go, attention starved as I was. To go from a life of emotional solitude-never being acknowledged as a human being, but a means to an end-to being the focus of someone’s attention and energies; I don’t think I could have avoided falling in love with him even if I knew what was to come.

* * *

On one particular morning, after having lived on the island for about five or six months, I was awoken by knocking on my bedroom door. Silva had been gone the day before, and I hadn't expected to see him again so early. I flopped out of bed, still sleepy, and stumbled over to open the door. I expected it to be one of the guards—whom essentially functioned as house staff with machine guns—telling me that Silva would be returning soon. 

At this time, he was leaving almost every other day. He would return late into the evening, and request my presence, through way of a guard poking their head in my door and telling me to, “go on over to Mr. Silva's room.” I would then take my time changing into one of my soft cotton dresses and brushing out my hair, before pacing down the hallway to his room. He would always be half asleep in bed, and I would have to walk on over and pull the red curtains aside—something which always made me feel a bit nervous—and then I would crawl in next to him, and wait to feel his arms around me. I think he wanted me to feel like I had a choice in it, coming to him or not.

I opened the door to see Silva, standing in the hallway with his typical smug smile, hands clasped together as if he was anticipating something. 

“Good morning, my darling,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. He was wearing a light colored suit jacket and vest, like he was prepared for something important. 

“Good morning,” I said back, staring at him, confused. 

“You don't want to stay on this dreary island all day, do you?” he said, rather animated, like he was putting on a show for me. 

“Um,” I began, not sure how to respond. I hadn't put any thought into leaving the island since my arrival, and it certainly didn't seem _dreary_ to me. The island was bright and breezy, and safe, most of all. Secluded from the world, surrounded by armed militants who respected my privacy and would eliminate any intruders without a thought—the island was a paradise. 

“Of course you do. I can't believe I've kept you here, cooped up all this time. How cruel of me; you must forgive me.” 

“It's fine, really,” I asserted. 

“But, today, I will attempt to repent for my sins...hm?” He looked at me as if he was waiting for an answer, so I nodded in response. 

“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “I'm afraid that I have a dinner obligation with a business associate tonight. Could I trouble you with joining me?” 

Silva liked to ask questions that weren't really _questions_ , per say, they were commands wrapped in the disguise of self determination. I didn't want to go with him, but the thought of saying so didn't even occur to me. 

“Of course. I'd be happy to.” 

In a way, I was terribly excited to spend more time with him. I craved every single act of affection he bestowed on me, and the prospect of having him all to myself for any period of time made me feel weak in the knees.

“Fantastic. We should depart for Sicily at once. Don't worry about packing... we'll find you something nice to wear when we get there, yes?” 

I nodded again. Silva seemed pleased. 

“We'll take the yacht to La Palma, and charter a plane and pilot from there. No time to waste, dearest.”

Silva poked around my room while I brushed my hair out and looked through my closet for something to wear other than the plain white dress I used as pajamas. A few days after my arrival on the island, my dresser had mysteriously been filled with looser dresses made out of soft fabric, and my skin tight over-sexualized working clothes had disappeared. I pulled out a green dress with a wrap belt, and a pair of simple white shoes. Silva nodded his approval.

"Hurry up, my dear. Time is leaving us behind."   


* * *

 

We left the island before the sun was even up, accompanied by several of the guards, who traded in their automatic weapons for concealed pistols. Silva talked away on a cell phone in Spanish, securing our flight, I assumed. I had brought a book of Roman history along, seeing as we were going to Italy. I sat on the deck and flipped through the pages, looking for anything about Sicily. 

Silva, off his phone now, sat down next to me and observed my flipping through the index. 

“You won't find much about Sicily today in a book like that,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “Nothing about organized crime in the Roman era, I don't suppose.”

“I like this sort of history better,” I said. 

“And why is that?” Silva asked. 

“Because. You don't need to worry about who the bad guys are. They're all dead now.” 

Silva laughed at that. 

“I didn't know that encouraging this reading would lead to such... morbid thoughts.” 

“It's not morbid though. It's just more simple.”

“The world is rather complicated, don't you think, Sévérine? It's so hard to keep track of what is right and what is wrong.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. 

“What seems to be the moral thing to do could have dire consequences.”

“So,” I said. “How do you decide then, what to do? What is right?” 

Silva shrugged.

“What is correct? The law? No.” Silva scoffed. “How could the law of any land be correct, when they all vary so greatly? And religions do nothing but wage war against each other while speaking of peace; every government caters to the needs of the richest among them. The only thing which is right is that which is right for myself. All else is falsehood.”

“And what about everyone else?” I asked.

“Those who oppose me, they are 'the bad guys,' as you said. No worrying is necessary.”

“But... what about someone like Cortês? He only acted out of self interest, and what he did was wrong...” 

“And now he's dead, is he not?” 

“Yes.” 

“He opposed _you_ , darling.” 

The gravity of Silva's words struck me. I couldn't even fathom the idea of having power myself, of living on my own sort of principals. 

“Who are we meeting with tonight?” I asked, my voice soft. The way Silva was speaking about morality and conquering ones enemies, it made me a little nervous. 

“Just a business partner of mine,” Silva said, like it was so simple. 

“What sort of business are you in?” 

“Whatever business my client wants me to be in.” Silva smiled. “The world is controlled by machines, you see. And if you can control the machines...” 

“You control the world,” I finished. 

“Mmhm.” Silva punctuated his reply with a slow nod.

“And what is it that your clients want?” 

“How talkative you are today, dear,” Silva laughed. “The people who seek out my services... they're the sort of people who believe they can buy their way into power.” 

“Can they?”

“Of course not. Power cannot be bought. It can only be earned. But, they like to play their little games, with their money and their friends... and it always ends poorly for them.”

I drank in his words, this strange sort of philosophy. I took every word he said as Gospel. The only other lesson I had ever been taught was that I was only worth the money I could make. Silva's outlook was so revolutionary to me—not only that I was to value myself for something other than money, but that money was essentially meaningless. Money without anything to back it up was just paper in the hands of impotent would-be-kings. It all fit together for me in that moment; what I had read about fallen empires and disgraced rulers. You had to earn your power. And while I didn't know just how he'd done it, I knew Silva had earned everything he had. 

I didn't understand much about the world beyond what I had read in history books and seen in the brothels. But, I understood power, better than most. My whole life, I'd watched men convince themselves they had power because they could afford to fuck me. But Silva? Silva didn't need to be convinced. I made a conscious decision then, that I was going to follow Silva in whatever sort of _business_ it was he was doing.

I loved him, and I believed everything he said. 

* * *

 

From the boat, Silva, myself, and three guards made our way onto a small plane, while the rest of the men who had came with us took the yacht back to the island. I slept through the plane ride, while Silva busied himself with a notebook full of scribblings in Spanish. I put my head on his shoulder, and he nuzzled against me every few minutes, between flipping pages.

The plane landed at an airport in the city of Catania , on the Sicilian coast. There was a car waiting for us at the airport, and Silva along with the guards shuffled me along off the plane into the vehicle, while the pilot stood in the aisle of the plane and counted a stack of American hundred dollar bills, smiling. Piles of cash were Silva's trademark in those days. He knew the value of presentation. 

I sat down in the back of the car, sandwiched between a guard and Silva.

“I think we should get you something nice to wear; don't you, dear?” 

I slowly nodded in agreement. 

“Hassan,” Silva instructed the guard in the driver's seat. “Take us into town, would you?” 

I kept my nose to the window through our entire drive. The town seemed very old, but not decrepit in any way. It was like being transported back in time; stone buildings with red roofs and arched windows, adorned in crosses and some even with statues. A mountain loomed in the distance, so blue that it could have blended into the sky, was it not for the white snowy top.

We stopped in front of a boutique shop, with dresses of white and gold posed in the window.

“Don't drive off too far now,” Silva told our driver, before opening the door and motioning me out of the car. 

* * *

The store was the kind where you had to speak to an intercom before they let you in. Silva chatted up the sales associate in his impeccable Spanish, before the door buzzed. The interior was sparse and airy, with light colored wooden floors, and the windows bathing most of the room in natural light. There were very few racks of clothes up against the wall, and what was hanging was covered in plastic. Most of the space was devoted to featureless mannequins with smooth plastic skin, draped in expensive swathes of layered fabric, which I assumed were meant to be clothing. 

The saleswoman had a stiff face and cheeks stretched to almost bursting. Her nipped suit matched her black hair that was plastered to her head. Her appearance was painful, all tight and shiny. 

She and Silva exchanged a few words in Spanish, before she turned to be and spoke in English,

“Ah, Mr. Silva's niece! What a pleasure it is to meet you.” 

I nodded, trying my best to be polite under the circumstances. I was afraid, for no good reason. 

“What a lovely girl she is,” the woman said, to Silva now. “She's downright statuesque. She was born for couture... what did you say the occasion was?” 

“It's a party. Don't worry about that though,” Silva said, looking around the room, hands clasped and held at his waist, as he did when he wanted to appear patient. “I want her in white,” he said plainly. “White is a good color for young girls, don't you think so?” 

The woman nodded, wordless. I didn't think she cared one way or another.

“But nothing childish. Something more fitted, no tulle or ruffles.” 

I stood silent throughout this entire process, as Silva listed off attributes for potential dresses, and the saleswoman nodded over and over and over again, and I could feel my skin crawling. The entire process was reminiscent of watching the girls with their numbers pinned on them lining up for sale. It wasn't close to being equivalent, but I had that same uneasy pit of dread welling up in my stomach. 

Mercifully, after another minute or two of instruction from Silva, the woman retreated to the back of the store—explaining how the sales room was so spares—and returned with a tight dress with a white slit skirt and gold bodice. There was a band of beading which separated the two pieces. 

“Go try that on, darling,” Silva said, addressing me for the first time since we entered. I obeyed, taking the dress from the saleswoman, who had been cradling it like a baby, and retreating to the dressing room. 

Inside the dressing room, which consisted of a closet sized room lit up with what looked like a hundred light bulbs surrounding the mirror, I slid out of my loose dress and eyed the new outfit. The material felt like something I would have worn at the hotel. I bit down on my lip and told myself to breathe. It was just a dress, nothing sinister. 

It was a lovely dress though, uncomfortable as it made me feel. It was professional, in a way. Not too overtly sexy, at least. That was nice. I told myself that I would wear it without complaint for Silva, who was undoubtedly spending a considerable amount of money on me, and didn't mean to make me feel anxious... 

I showed myself off for Silva, who smiled and made a little clapping motion, before pulling a credit card out of his pocket and handing it with a flourish to the saleswoman, who gave her best plastic smile in return. 

“Those shoes too, please,” Silva called after the woman. He faced me again. “You are absolutely beautiful, my love.” 

I felt a lump in my throat that burnt my eyes and threatened to turn into tears. Of course he didn't mean to make me feel anxious, I rationalized. He didn't mean to ignore me or make me feel like I was on display. No, no. He loved me too.

He loved me. 

* * *

 

The car was parked outside of the store when we left, me in my new dress and gold sandals, Silva holding my old clothes in a shopping bag. He put his hand around my waist as soon as we left, and a blush grew in my cheeks. We drove a few blocks to a restaurant, where Silva informed me that we would be meeting his business partner. 

Inside the restaurant was dark, uncomfortably so. I could barely make out the other tables from our seat the corner. The walls were decorated in a red and gold damask pattern, which glittered ever so slightly. No sign of Silva's business partner yet. I could hear the sound of hushed conversations in Italian around me, unusually quiet. There was no boisterous laughing or even loud voices. The atmosphere was almost disturbing, or at least getting under my skin. 

From the darkness emerged a tall and slim man with a shaved head wearing a fitted gray suit, accompanied by a shorter and heavyset man following behind him, with curly black hair. 

“Mr. Silva,” the taller of the two said. “It's a pleasure.” They approached the table and sat down facing us. At such a short distance, I could see the sharp eyes of the tall man. They were the same gray as his suit. 

“Gentlemen,” Silva said, extending his hand out across the table. Both men took a moment to shake, eying Silva with what looked like suspicion. “What a pleasure it truly is, to finally meet you, mister...” 

“Caligula,” the tall man said. Silva raised an eyebrow. 

“Caligula, you say? Is that your birth name?” Silva smiled at him, insincere. He wasn't impressed. 

“I'm building an empire, Mr. Silva,” _Caligula_ said, hard eyes narrowing. “An empire needs a strong figure at the helm.” 

“But of course,” Silva agreed, nodding fervently. “And you know what else an empire needs, hm? A secure way of transferring and storing funds.” It was meant to be a joke. Caligula scowled. 

“That's why I called upon you, Mr. Silva. My colleagues in Mexico had nothing but praise for your methods... although, I'm not certain if your skills will suit my needs.” 

“And what would your needs be?” 

I sat perfectly still and silent, trying not to shiver in that damn dress which left me feeling exposed and awkward, all stiff and dressed up. Silva and Caligula were not off on good terms, that much was certain. The short man, who had yet to be introduced, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and scowled. I assumed he wasn't there for the finances, but to intimidate Silva. He was a solid looking man, and probably carrying a weapon, but Silva was unflinching.

“This is my restaurant, so we may speak freely here.”

“Naturally.”

Caligula cleared his throat. 

“I am rebuilding a tarnished empire. Over the past few years, the Sicilian mob has fallen victim to the interference of the police, and to our own outdated practices. Globalization, that is our new goal. No more of this hometown idealism.” 

“And you intend on doing this in what way?” 

“Business relationships with the Mexican cartels.”

“Which requires frequent transferring of funds, yes? Tell me, Mister Caligula, where do you keep your money now? Under your mattress?” 

Caligula _hissed_ at Silva, his teeth bared and everything. They were gleaming white and perfectly arranged, a row of little white bricks. 

“I will not be spoken to in such a way.” 

Silva looked bored. 

“My apologies. I was simply trying to make an example—cash is not secure. Electronic means are by far the most efficient and safe way of accessing funds. However, what I find with many of my clients is that a physical representation of their funds is often a...comfort.” Silva reached into his pocket and pulled out a black and gold casino chip. “This chip can be exchanged for a briefcase full of cash, or the client can choose to deal with their money solely in electronic terms. However you chose, sir.” Silva flipped the chip over in his palm. A sleeping dragon was embossed into the coin.

“Do you expect me to trust you to give me my million dollars back when I hand you a poker chip?” 

“All prosperous relationships are based on trust,” Silva replied, unfazed.

Caligula made a little show of arching his shoulders and shaking his head. 

“Your attitude does not sit well with me, Mr. Silva. However, my business associates have spoken highly of your abilities... perhaps we should take the night to sleep on this deal of ours. Though, I would sleep much better with the company of your beautiful girl.”

I couldn't breathe; it was like there was a stone resting on my chest. He thought I was a prostitute. Silva's prostitute used to sweeten deals. 

And then, the thought occurred to me that I very well could be. Was that why Silva brought me along and got me all dressed up? He couldn't expect me to have anything meaningful to contribute to the conversation after all. 

“My apologies, but she's not part of the bargaining,” Silva said. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

“Why bring along a dolly for me to look at but not touch, hm?” Caligula asked. The word “dolly” made my skin crawl.

“I was under the impression that it was part of your organization's code to not touch another man's woman, am I correct?”

Caligula shook his head.

“She's not your _woman_. She doesn't have a reason to be here—she doesn't even talk, does she?”

Silva nudged my leg under the table. 

“I don't speak without something to contribute,” I said, soft. Caligula smirked at that. 

“I'm sure you've got something to contribute, sweetheart.” 

My nerves were shot at this point, between the dress shop and the plane ride and Silva confusing me. I was in no mood to listen to this idiot prattle on about his superiority. I tried to bite down on my lip, but the words came out too fast. 

“Do you know what Caligula did as emperor of the Roman Empire?” I asked. 

“I'll tell you what he did. He set a legacy for himself. The name Caligula, thousands of years later, people know what it means. It means that you strike fear into the hearts' of all who oppose you, and don't tolerate dissenters.” 

I truly meant to hold my tongue and let Silva deal with the egomaniac across the table from us, but I couldn't resist making a blow towards his pride. He reminded me too much of hundreds of clients: power hungry idiots, full of grandiose ideas about themselves. I was tired of feeling controlled. So I lashed out. 

“Caligula _fucked his horse_.” 

The stout man, who had up until that point been smoking his cigarette, reached into his suit jacket and aimed a gun right at my face. 

“The girl says one more word, and she dies.” 

I didn't even have time to react to the gun before Silva kicked the table over onto it's side and pulled me down to the floor.


	7. I Am Not Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick content note: As we all know, Silva is not a very nice man, and there's some pretty heavy undertones of emotional abuse in this chapter.

Chapter Seven.

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

_(Sara Teasdale, I Am Not Yours)_

* * *

I was rigid as a board, my stomach pressed against the floor of the restaurant, smelling years of grease that saturated the carpet, fibers sticking into my cheek where my head was laying down flat. These are the things I remember, because Silva was a blur, hands dug into pockets, gun drawn, trigger pulled, faster than I could process the series of events which had led to me laying under a table in a fancy looking restaurant with horrible smelling carpet and a gun pointed at me.

I couldn't see Silva, but I could hear him, or at least the burst of gunfire in my ears. It was louder than I expected; my ear drums were aching.

“Down, stay down,” I heard him yell to me. I didn't dare disobey. It occurred to me sometime between gun shots that this mess was entirely my fault, and had I just kept my mouth shut, we would have gotten out of here without a problem.

Now, in retrospect, I can see Silva having started the same kind of confrontation without my help, but he would have been more likely to talk them down if the gun was aimed at him and not me. But, at the time, I was not thinking much of anything.

Silva made a noise somewhere between a groan and a yelp, and I turned my head upwards to see him on his knees, holding his pistol with both hands, a stream of blood flowing down from his right shoulder through his cream colored suit jacket. I wanted to throw up. He dropped the pistol and pushed the table, still on it's side, into the knees of our two assailants, the one of whom was attempting to fire. The pair tripped from the sudden weight of the table against their legs, and Silva took the opportunity to stand up—slowly enough to make me nervous; I had all but forgotten about the reconstructed leg until then. Caligula had completely lost his bearings and was pushing himself up from the floor, while the larger man was regaining his balance, teetering slightly. Silva kicked him in the crotch and put him back down on the floor, before stepping down on his back.

“Sévérine, the gun.”

I grabbed the pistol off the floor and got up as fast as I could, but not before Caligula stood up, his own gun in hand.

“Do you know who you're fucking with here, hm?” Caligula sneered. “I am Cosa Nostra. You just made enemies with all of Sicily...”

I pointed the gun at Caligula's foot and squeezed the trigger, twice in quick succession. He screamed, almost as loud as the shot. Silva stepped off the henchman, only to kick him in the head hard enough to render him unconscious, and then strode over to Caligula, who had fallen over once again, staring at the hole in his shiny leather shoes, leaking blood.

“Do you know how Caligula died, darling?” Silva said, addressing me.

“He was stabbed by his bodyguards,” I replied.

Silva looked around the room. Everyone had either ran out, or was ducking underneath their own tables.

“All of Sicily does not seem intent on coming to your aid, Mr. Caligula. There have been emperors before you. And there will be many after you.”

With that, Silva stepped on the man's foot, to more screams. He held the pistol against Caligula's head and placed his palm flat over the other man's mouth, until his eyes fluttered back. Satisfied, Silva stood up, and put his hand over the wound to his shoulder.

“Are they dead?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Silva shook his head.

“Unconscious. Never create a body you're not prepared to dispose of. Paper trails are terribly obnoxious.” I saw blood begin to stain his fingers. With his hand still over his chest, Silva bent over and picked up the stout bodyguard's gun from the floor. I was holding Silva's pistol. “I do believe we may have overstayed our welcome.”

I followed Silva out, right through the front door, like we hadn't just shot the owner of the restaurant and then suffocated him halfway to death. The car was waiting for us, illegally parked right at the front door. I could hear the screech of police sirens in the distance.

We got into the car, Silva and I separated by the oldest and most dour of the guards. Silva gave the driver directions in rapid Spanish. He was obviously agitated, and continue speaking in Spanish to himself, his voice low, and his eyes shut. His shoulder was bleeding less now; dried blood circled the wound. Once again, I wanted to throw up. I had done that to him, with my stupid, impulsive mouth.

I felt massive wave of guilt wash over me: that this man had taken me in and saved me from my hell in Macau, only for me to doubt his intentions and indirectly injure him.

Silva kept muttering under his breath, words I couldn't understand. He didn't look like he was in pain—his face was almost peaceful—but his words were laced with a poison which I didn't need to know the language to hear.

“Are you...okay?” I stammered, eyes on his bloodied hand.

He cracked open his eyes just slightly, looked over at me without turning his head.

“I have survived worse.”

“...doesn't it hurt?”

“I suppose it does. The bone is shattered, at the least.” Silva closed his eyes again.

I couldn't even breathe, let along speak again, my throat was so choked up. All I could do was stare at the blood, saturated so deeply that it was almost black against his suit.

“Isaac,” Silva said, addressing one of the guards. Isaac was a tall and athletic African man with thick black hair he kept cut short. He couldn't have been older than twenty. He was sitting shotgun, next to Hassan. “You have her passport?”

“Yes, sir,” Isaac responded.

I didn't know I had a passport.

“Hassan and Anton will stay with me. You and Sévérine are going to the airport. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Isaac pulled a pistol out of the pocket of his jacket and set it down in the cup holder. Had the situation not been so dire, I would have laughed at that.

Silva made a slight groaning noise and pushed down on his wounded shoulder. Blood stained the tips of his fingers maroon.

“And here I thought,” Silva muttered, “I could barely feel anything anymore.”

* * *

The car came to a halt in front of the airport we had entered Sicily from. Anton, the older guard who had been sandwiched between Silva and myself, nearly pushed me out of the vehicle. Less than a second after my feet were safely on the ground, the car speed away, becoming a black dot in my field of vision in less than a minute.

“Come on, princess. We're going home,” Isaac commanded.

I bristled at the nickname, but followed Isaac down the sidewalk that led into the airport.

“You and I make quite a pair, don't we?” Isaac said, with a little laugh. “What's our alibi to airport security, hm? Costume ball?”

Isaac and I made a mismatched couple. He was wearing the standard uniform of sorts for the island's guards: a beat up blue jacket, khaki pants, and combat boots. I was still made up, in my obscenely expensive designer dress and golden heels.

“Star crossed lovers,” I said, teasing him back. “I'm running away from my rich and disapproving parents, Romeo.”

Isaac shook his head.

“Who the hell is Romeo?”

“It's a story.”

“You and your stories. That's all you ever do, read and go get sun burnt.” There wasn't any genuine cruelty in his voice, just bemusement, like I was some sort of entertaining oddity. “Mr. Silva must think you're something real special, huh?”

I looked down at the ground, thought about Silva and the gunfire, the blood on his jacket...

“I don't know.”

Isaac pulled my passport out of his jacket.

“Says here your name is Ada Tseung. You're from Hong Kong—doesn't explain your accent, so don't get too chatty. I'm Benjamin Good of South Africa. They shouldn't ask, but if they do, we met online and are taking a Mediterranean vacation together. We're some crazy rich kids, okay?”

“Sounds good to me.”

We walked into the airport a few moments later. It wasn't terribly large, but I stayed stuck to Isaac the whole time. He was good with people, handled himself like he knew what he was doing, and somehow got us last minute unclaimed tickets on a flight to the Canary Islands.

My passport got me through the security check without any issues. I noticed that it said I was nineteen, but had the correct month and date of my birth—something I'd forgotten amid the dullness of my life at the hotel. I was going to be seventeen in three days. This information didn't change anything, it just amazed me, how I could have forgotten my own birthday. Silva must have seen it in Cortês' files.

The plane wasn't very large, but it still wasn't full. Isaac and I took two seats in the back, away from the rest of the passengers. I was still queasy from the events of the day, and the lift off wasn't helping. I stared at a point between my knees and tried to focus all my energy at the floor.

“You came from that casino that Mr. Silva went to in Macau, didn't you?” Isaac asked me. He was leaning back in his seat, much more relaxed than myself.

“Yeah,” I said, soft.

“He wouldn't let any of us go on with him when he went there. Don't know why. I didn't like that—you know, I couldn't live with myself if something happened to Mr. Silva.”

Isaac looked very young when he said that. It struck me that he could even be the same age as myself.

“He was acting funny before he went too. Talking about retribution, getting himself worked the hell up. He said he had to go to Macau by himself, something about settling with his debtors.” Isaac shook his head. “He gets strange, you know.”

I thought back to the hotel room and the gun, and nodded.

“And then he came back with you. I shouldn't have been so surprised, I mean, I didn't know Mr. Silva was well, interested. Yeah.” Isaac paused like he was going to say something more, but didn't. “But, Mr. Silva, if he sees potential in someone, even someone who's been left for dead, he'll take them in.” Isaac smiled. “He told me I still had fight left in me.”

“What... where,” I tried to phrase the question.

“You ever heard of the LRA?"

I shook my head.

“Child soldiers.” Isaac said. “They took me when I was seven, eight maybe. Gave me a gun, told me to fight. I got my leg blown off on a landmine when I was twelve.”

I looked down at Isaac's legs.

“The right one's a prosthetic below the knee,” he said. “I met Silva when I was 13, begging in Kampala. That was four years ago, something like that. He took one look at me, knew I was a soldier. A damn good soldier too. Asked me if I wanted a new leg. I didn't know what to say, you know, some guy with a funny looking face and a limp comes up to you and asks if you want a new leg, sounds like a joke. But I was good as dead then, living off scraps, so I went with him.”

Isaac closed his eyes, laid back in his seat.

“He took me back to his island, found me a doctor like he said he would. I owe Mr. Silva my life. So you know, if he says someone deserves what's coming to them, yeah, I'd say he's probably right.”

“I do too,” I said, soft.

“Hm?”

“I said, I owe him my life too. Especially now.”

“I never saw him happy before you came. He cares about you.” Isaac said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I don't deserve that,” I replied.

* * *

  
We got back to the island by way of Silva's ferry, which was waiting for us at the dock when we arrived, so late that no one was outside. Somehow, amid gunshot wounds and the surgery I heard whispered about in later days, Silva had remembered to call the boat back to the dock. I hadn't cried yet, but I almost did when I saw the boat sitting in the harbor, amid Isaac muttering about how he was going to have to charge up the credit card with a hotel room until we got a hold of the crew on the island.

Two days later, my birthday came and went without any fanfare, as expected. It was the first time in years I even knew the date. Silva was gone, and no one seemed to know when he would be back. Anton and Hassan had apparently called with some cryptic message about an extended recovery period, and complications.

My fault. All my fault.

I wandered around like a ghost through the whole period of Silva's absence. I hated myself every moment he was missing. I couldn't bring myself to focus on anything. Books didn't hold my interest, walking around the island was just a painful reminder that he was gone.

I'd stumble down to breakfast in the morning, eat my cereal in silence with the eight guards who remained on the island without Hassan and Anton. Ivan—the man with the scar who had made the mistake of touching me when we first met—stayed as far away from me as he could.

They would busy themselves with doing pushups and chin ups in the basement of the house, somewhere I seldom went, as I wasn't rather interested in shooting at targets or lifting weights. I sat in front of the television, listless, reading the news reel of various atrocities that ran across the bottom of the screen. Death and destruction and pain. There was a terrorist attack in America which worried the guards. They spent their nights crowded around the television set, drinking beer and talking about increased airport security and international extradition.

Sometimes they went to pick up packages from the mainland, and I tagged along that week, out of sheer boredom. We carried boxes of pasta and cereal onto the boat and then sailed back for home. I listened to more debates about how increasing international security was going to lead to our grocery order betraying Silva's location, and how we needed to move to a more secure base.

I never contributed to their conversations, nor was I asked to. The guards didn't seem to have an opinion on me, other than Isaac's comment that I made Silva happy. I suppose that revelation should have made me feel at least a slight bit better, but it just compounded my misery.

Without Silva, I didn't feel like I was really alive. I just floated on from one room to the next, sitting down, taking in my surroundings, and moving on. I dreamed about him, the same dream I would have years later. Walking into his room and finding him gone, as if I had just missed him by a moment, the bed still warm. I woke up with my arms wrapped around my pillow, starving for the affection Silva bestowed upon me in our moments together, waking up in the morning to glimpse of blonde hair and a strong arm around my waist.

It wasn't even his absence which hurt; he had been away for many days before. It was not knowing where he was, if he was okay, how badly he was hurt, and how much he blamed me.

I laid in my bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting.

* * *

  
It felt like an eternity passed from the night at the restaurant to the day Silva returned. In reality, was about a little longer than a week. The yacht left a few days prior to his return, making me terribly anxious. All anyone would tell me was that yes, Silva would be back, did I think he wasn't returning?

The morning of Silva's return, it was Anton, who had left with Silva, that knocked on my door and told me that Silva wanted to see me. I just about fell out of bed and rushed down the hallway, not even bothering to put shoes on.

“You ought to slow down,” Anton said. He had a slow and rough voice, that matched his outward appearance. “Don't rush up on him.”

I stopped so fast I slid a few inches on the hardwood.

“Is he alright?” I asked.

“Just go slow,” Anton replied.

* * *

  
I opened Silva's door, slowly as possible, crack by crack. I wanted to jump out of my skin with anticipation and anxiety.

“There you are, beautiful,” Silva said when I stepped into his room. He was sitting down in front of a computer, and stood up as I entered. He was wearing black silk pajama pants, and nothing else. A large gauze pad was taped to his shoulder where the bullet entered.

It had been months since I had seen him shirtless, and when I had, it had been through a sick haze. I had forgotten just how extensive the damage on his torso was. There were pinkish bands of raised scar tissue that extended length-wise across his stomach, and smaller cuts on his chest, in straight orderly rows. His upper arms had rows of burn marks. The damage had very obviously been done intentionally.

“Do you forget so easily, darling?” Silva asked, his mouth bent into a scowl.

“I didn't...” I began to stutter. “Didn't realize how bad, b-bad it was.”

“What did you think they did to me, when I was in imprisoned, hm? Did you think they roughed me up, held my head under cold water for a minute or two, maybe kicked me in the stomach? No.”

I felt my hands begin to shake. Silva was angry, very angry, as it would seem. And I was the object of this anger. I wanted to run straight out of the room, but my legs were immobilized. I thought again of Macau, the gun against my forehead... did I forget so easily, as Silva had said?

“They wanted to see how much I could bleed without dying.” Silva grinned, a false grin, it's awfulness magnified by my knowledge of the prosthesis under it. “How much they could burn me without my skin falling off. So they did it piece by piece, dot by dot.” Silva brushed his hand over his arms. “Some of it did. I didn't look like anything that should have been alive when I crawled out of my own grave.”

I started crying silently, but it stung all the same as if I was sobbing.

“I could tell you stories of her for years. She was the fire of my heart... she was my soul, you understand? And then she sold me. Sold me to be beaten and raped, to be killed. And for what? The lives of five inferior agents who had walked right into the traps the Chinese government had laid for them; five inferior agents who would only stumble again?”

I was shaking even more now, from my knees, my fingers, my hands. Silva looked at me with bleary, sad eyes, and in an instant, his features traveled from anger to despair.

“I loved her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

We didn't speak for a moment, and the silence was so excruciating, that I burst out into real, audible, tears.

"I'm sorry!” I choked out. “I'm so...so...sorry.”

“You wouldn't use me, hmm? Would you, beautiful?” Every time he said that word, it cut like an insult. “You wouldn't take advantage of me? Live in my home, ungrateful, without thinking of how fortunate you are? You would never.”

“No, no,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my palm. “I am... I am so grateful.”

“And if someone threatened you, to sell me out to them, you never would? You would guard my secrets to your death, yes?”

“Of course I would!”

“No matter what, you would never betray the man who saved you?”

“Never. Never ever.”

“Not for any prize?”

“I love you, Raoul,” I said, trying to collect myself. “I love you and I will never ever do anything to hurt you ever again. I was so stupid... I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry.”

“They had to replace my right clavicle after the bullet shattered the bone,” Silva said. “There's more metal in me than flesh now, darling, did you know? Perhaps, everyone I love just takes another piece away...”

“I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am, I just... I can't even tell you.”

“But you're not going to hurt me again, are you?” Silva asked.

I shook my head, so fast I made myself dizzy.

“Never. Never again.”

“Good,” he said, and sat down. As if it was so simple. Like I wasn't standing there sobbing. 

“Did I tell you what I did before I was Raoul Silva?”

“I don't think so,” I said, terrified that I had forgotten that too.

“I was an agent for MI6—you wouldn't happen to know who...”

“That's the British Intelligence agency,” I said. I'd watched quite a bit of international news in the past week or so.

Silva smiled a bit, as if I had pacified him.

“Yes. I was an agent. Their best agent. Too good, you might say. There was so much to be done, so much which I could do, but those fools had to prattle on about it for days before we could tie our shoes. No one understood the power of technology. I suppose that I was bored... and, the salary was a pittance. So, I partook in some work on the side. Some for MI6, some for myself. They didn't like that, and when fools like Cortês made mistakes which betrayed some information about who I was... I think you understand.”

I nodded again, not wishing to go through Silva's explanation of how he was tortured once more.

“I’ve spent the past five years rebuilding myself from nothing. All this, from a handful of dirt.” He paused, and pursed his lips slightly. “But, there is always more which can be achieved, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mhm,” I said, soft.

“I no longer intend on troubling myself with petty mobsters and their egos. Or anyone of the sort.” Silva tapped his fingers against the desk. “We’ll be expanding.”

I didn’t have anything to say in response. He was so calm and rational now; it disturbed me.

“There’s just one or two loose ends,” Silva said, in a sing-song tone, like it was a game all of a sudden.

“What sort of loose ends?” I asked, knowing Silva was expecting it.

“There’s a man whom I was formerly acquainted with from Russia. He’s not particularly bright, and I’m quite concerned about whether I can trust him to not be arrested and lead a few unpleasant characters to my door.” Silva sighed. “Unfortunately, this necessitates that I kill him myself before his carelessness causes him to stumble into a trap.”

I nodded, wondering where Silva was going with this conversation. My heart was jumping around in my chest, and I was breathless with anxiety. 

“And, as if to prove his own idiocy, he’s been spending his money all across the great Casinos of Asia. As a matter of fact, he has a reservation at a lovely new property in Macau which I just invested in. Now, under a different set of circumstances, I would do the job myself, but as you can see, I’m not able to hold a gun, much less successfully dispose of a body. And as for the guards, well, they lack a certain finesse necessary to gain access to the target in private.”

I understood what Silva was getting at now. And, desperate for him to forgive me, I made a choice. 

“I’ll do it,” I said, breathless. “I’ll kill him.”

Silva nodded in affirmation, as if there hadn’t been a question as to whether I would or not. 

“I will accompany you, of course. I don’t believe the target would have any suspicions about my presence, and I don’t intend on making contact with him. You’ll lure him into a private room and then terminate him, however you choose to; I find that one’s personality tends to shine through in their preferred method.”

I felt weak in the knees. I should have known that sooner or later, Silva would expect something of me in exchange for taking me in. Though, in a terrible way, I was relieved that it wasn’t sex he expected. His little speech about morality on the boat had sunk in. This man was going to die anyway. What difference did it make if I killed him a few weeks earlier than the next person out for his skin?

Silva beckoned me over by opening his arms out. I tentatively approached him and perched down on his lap. 

“It’s time for you to use your beauty against them, my dear.”

That convinced me.  

* * *

  
That evening, Silva gathered all the guards on the first floor, with the television switched off for the first time I could remember. I sat down on the floor, next to Isaac. 

“I believe that we can all agree that this island has become strategically unsound, can we not?” 

The whole group nodded in unison and mumbled their agreement. 

“We need to find a more suitable base. We are expanding the reach of our operations. No more will we do business with aspiring criminals. There are enough corrupt corporations and governments to keep us all in good health for years to come.” 

Silva smiled, predatory.

“I hope you gentlemen are prepared.”

Once again, the room was full of nodding and oaths of loyalty. I wondered if everyone had a story similar to Isaac’s. If Silva had wandered the world, finding the most broken and angry souls, to take them in and give them a purpose.

“This evening, I will begin extracting funds from a certain Sicilian drug lord—” Silva began. He was interrupted by the cheers of the guards. He waited a moment, and then silenced them with a wave of his hand.

“—And subsequently, looking into purchasing a piece of military hardware.”

No one dared to speak again, but I could feel the excitement in the air.

“Now then, you are all dismissed,” Silva said. It was amazing, the sort of authority he showed with such ease. The men got up and exited up the stairs to the second floor. I stood up and walked over to Silva. 

“It was your birthday last week, was it not, darling?” Silva asked me.

“I suppose so,” I replied, looking down at the floor. I wasn’t sure how to act around Silva after all that had occurred. Silva didn’t seem to notice my apprehension though, or if he did, he said nothing about it, just gave me a kiss on the cheek.    

“Not so much a child anymore, hm?”    


	8. Helen of Troy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this one is for Angel, who inspires me to keep writing.

Chapter Eight.

* * *

Look--my feet don't hit the marble!

Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,

I hover six inches in the air

in my blazing swan-egg of light.

You think I'm not a goddess?

Try me.

This is a torch song.

Touch me and you'll burn.

 

_(Margaret Atwood, Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing)_

* * *

 

“Rise and shine, princess!” I heard knocking at my door, and the distinct sound of Isaac's cheery voice on the other side.

“I'm already awake,” I groaned, telling a half truth. After the emotional barrage Silva had subjected me to the night before, I had crashed into a sleep that half resembled death, my face buried in my pillow so deep that I thought I might wake up with my head through the mattress.

After waking up at the indecent hour of four in the morning, as my glaring red digital clock indicated, I spent the next four hours alternately rolling around on my bed without much success falling back asleep, and getting up to grab a newspaper. I couldn't focus on reading though—I wasn't in the mood to contend with the suffering around the world when I had enough emotional turmoil of my own.

“You don't sound awake,” Isaac quiped.

“Please,” I began, getting out of bed, “tell me how I would be speaking to you if I was asleep.”

“Parlor trick. I don't know. Are you decent?”

“Yes.” I was wearing one of my duplicate white dresses that Silva must have found in bulk somewhere. My closet was stuffed with them.

Isaac opened the door, casually dangling a pistol by the trigger in his left hand.

“That's not loaded, is it?”

Isaac snorted.

“I'm not here to shoot you.”

“Not on purpose,” I replied.

“It's empty. Mr. Silva requested that I take you down to the basement for some target practice today. This gun's yours. Beretta 70. Cute little thing. Not that it can't blow your brains out if you know what you're doing.”

Isaac handed the gun out to me. I stared at it for a moment, not accepting.

“Come on, don't tell me you're afraid of guns now. I heard you shot some mafioso's toe off back in Sicily.”

“Self preservation,” I said, with a stiff expression. Isaac rolled his eyes.

“Here's some self preservation for you, princess. Everyone in the world is out to get you. Get them first.”

He forced the pistol into my hand, and I took it.

“That's a good girl,” Isaac said, rolling his eyes just slightly. “Now then, I'm supposed to be showing you how to actually use one of these things, rather than just waving it around. Come along.”

We exited my room and walked through the house towards the basement where the shooting range was located.

“Anyway," Isaac said, as we walked, "has Mr. Silva told you about our adventure this weekend?” Isaac spoke the word _adventure_ with a forced enthusiasm.

“Just that there's someone I need to get rid of,” I replied, stoic as could be.

“Uh huh. Some dumbass that's going to blow the lid on Mr. Silva. Not good. We need to shut him up. Now then, we're using the same passports as last time. Our cover is starstruck newlyweds this time around—guess we had a good time on our Mediterranean vacation.”

“Please,” I said, through clenched teeth, “Do not get comfortable with the idea of us being romantically involved.”

Isaac laughed.

“You have no need to worry about that.”

“Is that so?” I didn't trust men, particularly ones who claimed to not have any intentions towards me whatsoever.

“Maybe if you were... two inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a man, you would have something to worry about.”    I paused for a moment and looked at Isaac.

“No offense meant,” he continued. “You're just not my type.”

“You don't like women?”

“Nope. And even if I did, I wouldn't run the risk of Mr. Silva cutting my balls off. You're not that pretty.”

He opened the door to the basement, and we went down the stairs, into a world which I had kept my distance from since my arrival months ago. It was a large room with concrete reinforced walls and glaring fluorescent lights.

One side of the space was dedicated to exercise equipment: weights, treadmills, and the like. The other was a shooting range with an array of targets sitting at the far end of the room. Some were shaped like bodies, other were more standard bullseye circles. There was a heavy ammunition box on the floor, along side several tape markers indicating where to stand. Isaac dug through the ammunition box and pulled out a magazine. I stood on a line of tape, facing one of the large human dummies. Isaac handed me the magazine and stood behind me.

“Alright, you wanna make sure the safety is on, that's the switch there... and then the magazine goes in.” Isaac guided my hands into place. “And pull the whole way back on the slide... right. Keep it out in front of you; put your finger outside the trigger guard. You got a grip on there?”

I nodded.

“Okay, then you want to turn that safety off—and you can kill someone with this, so don't go waving it around. It's red there now, see? You stand with your feet apart, right, that's good. Bend your knees a little bit. And when you pull the trigger, go slow. You probably could have hurt yourself back in Sicily from the recoil. Get yourself lined up on the barrel with the target, and fire.”

I exhaled and squeezed the trigger. I hit the dummy in the arm area.

“Not terrible,” Isaac said, chuckling. “Try again.”

I went through the process a few more times, getting progressively closer to the dummy's heart.

“Center mass is good when you want to drop someone down. A headshot will see them dead, but it's harder to make. Though, I'm sure you'll be doing more sliding guns under chins in the middle of the night than sniping.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, given your background and all...” Isaac said, a little snide smile across his face.

“You don't know anything about my background,” I replied, making another shot. I got the dummy in the kidney—or what would have been a kidney, anyway, had it been Isaac.

“Look, I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a working girl. God bless my sister, that's probably what she's doing right now.”

I aimed another shot.

“You should go find her.”

_Bang._

“I wouldn't have the first clue where to look. Or if she's even alive.”

“Then pray she's dead.”

“What?” Isaac blurted out, indigent.

“Trust me, dead is much better.”

Isaac was about to say something in response, when we were interrupted by the sound of clapping coming from the top of the steps.

“Excellent aiming skills, my dear,” Silva shouted down into the basement. I clicked the safety on to prevent Isaac from yelling at me, and spun around to see him.

“Thank you,” I called back. I was still feeling wary of him after the outburst last night. Silva walked down the stairs, smiling as if everything was right with the world. He was wearing a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned down far enough that I could see the gauze pad taped over his shoulder to cover the sutures from his surgery.

It was amazing, the transformative effect that Silva's presence had on Isaac. He snapped into the soldier persona from the moment he had heard the other man. His back was pin straight, shoulders pulled high, arms to his side. There was no more teasing smile on his face, in fact, he had no expression at all.

Silva paced over to the two of us, relaxed and arms open, as if we both weren't standing stiff as dolls. He leaned in and planted a kiss on my forehead. I smiled and placed the gun down on the floor.

“You're shaping up to be an excellent shot. As I knew you would be.”

I glowed under his praise in spite of my fear, and pressed myself up against his chest, just enough to feel his warmth against me. Silva returned the gesture with an arm around my waist. Isaac remained soberly still.

“Isaac, what a good teacher you are,” Silva said, cheery. “You'll be a crack shot in no time, yes dear?” Silva pulled me in a little closer to him. “But, the fun is over for today. I need you to come upstairs and help me with a wardrobe decision.”

“A wardrobe decision?” I parroted back, confused.

“I just have a few things for you to choose from, that's all.”

* * *

  
Silva escorted me into my room, where there were several red dresses laying, draped across my bed. They were all gown length, with tight cut bodices, shiny in the light. I reached out to touch the fabrics, and found them to be heavy under my fingertips. They weren't cheap, obscenely cut, costumey things like what I had been forced wear to show myself off during my days in the hotel.

“Pick one,” Silva said, standing behind me, hands folded at his waist. “The one that makes you feel powerful.”

“What?” I laughed.

“In any of those dresses,” Silva began, smiling sly, “you could convince a man to abandon his faith, his country, his money. Which one convinces you?”

I took a moment to let Silva's words sink in. Beauty was power, Silva had told me that before. It hadn't occurred to me though, not just yet, how much power I really could hold over someone. How I could take back what had been stolen from me.

From the pile of gowns, I held up a beaded dress that shimmered in the light from the open window. The bodice had a sharp v-neck cut, and the skirt was loose enough to allow me to walk with easy, or to run even, if necessary.

“This one,” I said, imagining the way it would sparkle as I walked across the casino floor.

Silva nodded his approval.

“Now try it on,” he said, leaning against my dresser, not a care in the world.

I hesitated.

“I'm not going to touch you. You're in control.”

With shaky hands, I pulled off my limp cotton dress, and gingerly placed in on the floor in front of me. I could feel Silva's eyes resting on my back. He was humming something barely audible.

The dress slid on like a second skin. I was actually glowing, just standing there, wrapped in tiny crystals. It was heavy, but not in a way that would drag me down. It felt like armor.

“May I see you?” Silva asked, still humming to himself.

I turned around to face him, and saw the briefest flash of excitement in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” he said, soft. “Absolutely beautiful. Now, come over here and seduce me, hm?”

“What?”

“Show me how much power you have over me,” he said, biting down on his lower lip. “I want to see.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Pretend that this is the first time you've met me. You want to talk your way into my heart, into my bedroom. Expose all my secrets, cut me open and tear me out.”

“...why would I want to do that?”

Silva smiled and nodded his head, his patient expression, as if he didn't expect me to understand.

“Just pretend, darling.”

I held my shoulders up and kept my back straight, made my first tentative steps across the room. I decided I would play a game, like I was out looking for work in the bar, but instead of whoring myself, I'd take my client back to their room and stab them in the heart for daring to try and touch me.

I walked right up to Silva, placed my hand on his shoulder, and smiled with all the sultry charm I could muster.

“You look like you could use a drink,” I said. “So why don't you buy me one too?”

“I might just have to take you up on that offer,” Silva replied. I wondered if we were going to actually get out some fake glasses and have the world's strangest tea party, but thought better of voicing this aloud.

“Would you be so good to do so? What a gentleman you are, mister...”

“Silva.”

“Mister Silva. Sévérine . It's a pleasure.” I moved my hand down his shoulder and held onto his forearm. “After you.”

Silva leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“You are superb, my dear.”

I kept up his game, amused by my own ability.

“What sort of business are you in, Mr. Silva?”

He played right back, sighing and tapping his free hand against the dresser.

“My business is terribly boring. I wouldn't dare tire you with the details.”

“Why, I'm sure it can't be that dreadful if it's brought you to Macau.”

“Ah, I am here not on business, but pleasure.”

“I'll drink to that. Pleasure, of all kinds.”

“As would I.”

We stared at each other for a moment, before breaking out of our assigned roles of seductress and hapless businessman.

“I think that you are most... adequately prepared for our little business venture,” Silva said. “We'll be leaving this evening. Isaac will be joining us, I assume he told you of your cover story?”

I nodded yes.

“Fantastic. When we reach Macau, I will point out your mark. Convince him to take you to bed with him, and terminate him before he has the pleasure of doing so. Quietly, if possible. The gun is only required in the event something goes wrong.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” I told him, confident as I had ever been.

“Of course not.”

* * *

 The casino in Macau was rather impressive, breathtaking even. I was nervous about returning to the city which had been my prison for years, but I felt world's away from the hotel when I stepped onto a boat with Silva and Isaac and was rowed across a man-made lake to a golden palace floating on the water.

I was wearing the red dress with my hair pinned up and smoky eyes. A simple bracelet covered up my tattoo. In the car, Silva said I looked every bit the part of a femme fatale. The Beretta was strapped along side my thigh. The chill of the gunmetal was comforting. I imagined one of my former clients grabbing me by the hair, only for me to aim the pistol and shoot them in the heart.

The thought made me smile.

Silva and Isaac were both as formal as could be themselves, Isaac in a stiff black tuxedo, Silva wearing a grey suit and a dark red shirt underneath. We made quite the trio, the three of us standing idly on the the little boat, not excited about the prospect of winning money, or buying drinks, but preparing for an assassination.

The boat delivered through us the mouth of a dragon, lit up with hundreds of little lights. I couldn't hide my amazement, though Silva seemed less than impressed.

"Doesn't matter how you dress it up,” he said under his breath. I waited for the end of his statement, but it never came.

The inside of the Casino matched the opulence of the entrance. It was all red and gold glamor, low hanging lights, and intricately carved wooden banisters on the maze of stairs and walkways. It felt like stepping into an elaborate puzzle. The room was full to bursting with people, crowded around roulette tables and yelling in all sorts of languages about money.

We walked over an indoor bridge and approached a large desk, staffed by three men in all black. They recognized Silva immediately, and pulled themselves up in an alert, professional stance. It was the same kind of effect he had on Isaac.

“Gentlemen,” Silva said, stepping up to the desk and tapping his fingers against the dark polished wood. “I believe you have my arrangements?”

“Mr. Silva,” said the oldest of the three, bowing slightly at the waist. “Please follow me.”

We crossed the casino floor, garnering curious glances from the patrons. I noticed a number of male faces staring up at me. I didn't make eye contact, just kept my eyes on Silva and continued walking. Isaac kept close enough to me that our shoulders were touching. The dress was perfect, I could tell. It was as if it had been made for this very room. I was shining like a gemstone under the light.

We made our way up a short flight of stairs, and into a hallway which overlooked the casino floor. There were a number of rooms on the opposite side of the hall, and the man led us to one of the rooms, at which point he handed Silva a small envelope.

“Your key cards, sir. Do you require further assistance?”

“No. That will be all.”

The man nodded towards Silva, and left. Silva took a key card out of the envelope and opened the door. He handed me the second copy, which I placed inside my bag.

The hotel room was a suite, with a living room space, a main bedroom, and a smaller bedroom off through a separate door. It was decorated in the same sort of red and gold color scheme as the rest of the casino, low lights and rich wood paneled walls. Silva looked around the room for a moment, and nodded his approval. He put his computer case down on the plush tan couch in the living area and then motioned for me to come sit down next to him.

“I need to show you something, dear,” he said, all smiles. I sat down next to him, while Isaac went off to scour the room for wires or any other nasty tricks.

Silva popped open his computer case and waited for the screen to come to life.

“Are you nervous?” he asked me. The question surprised me. I hadn't been thinking about what I was to do or why I was there, only about making up for my mistake.

“You know,” Silva said, his fingers dancing around the keyboard so rapidly, I had trouble keeping sight of them, “there's not a terrible amount of difference between prostitution and assassination. You seduce your mark, you follow him back to his room... the only difference is if he pays for your company with his wallet or his life.” Silva laughed to himself a bit, and then tapped down on the computer to get my attention.

The screen showed a mug shot of a Caucasian man, in his mid-thirties most likely. He was likely Russian, or from somewhere nearby.

“The mark's name is Pavel Abramov. He's a mid-ranking financier specializing in money laundering and the like. He was an associate of mine years ago, when I was an agent of MI6, and out of circumstance, I was forced to call upon him to assist me after my time in China. He's moved into arms smuggling recently, a crime pathetically out of his area of expertise. He should have stayed safe behind his computer screen. But, he's a foolish and impulsive man who doesn't know how to cover his tracks, and the CIA is hunting him down like a rat in a trap. He will be caught, and then he'll bargain his mother's life for his freedom, much less all the information he knows on anyone he's ever been associated with...” Silva frowned as he spoke, moving the mouse around the screen.

“Pavel sells weapons for an Eastern European crime syndicate which specializes in sex trafficking.” Silva paused. “The sort of group that might have kidnapped you.”

“No one ever kidnapped me,” I said. “I was sold by an orphanage.”

We didn't speak for a moment, just stared at the screen.

“They said my mother was from Slovakia; I don't know if that's true or not. I don't know how they would have known.”

“That's how these sorts of criminals make their money,” Silva said. “Drugs, and guns, and women. Filthy business.”

“And he works for those people?”

“Hides their money, runs their guns. He's on the bad side of the CIA after he tried to sell to American drug runners.”

“And these are the people that could have taken my mother?”

“Could have potentially, yes.”

“This shouldn't be a problem then,” I whispered.

“I have a few presents for you,” Silva said, popping open a compartment of his computer case. There was a small white jewelry box inside. Silva took it out and opened it. He handed me a small plastic bag of white powder. I stared at it, confused.

“Crushed Flunitrazepam,” Silva explained. “No taste, no odor, no color. Put it in his drink and tell him you need to go to your room to freshen up and you'll meet him in his suite. Fifteen minutes later, he'll be too confused to protest when you finish up the job.”

I nodded and accepted the bag, which I folded and placed inside my small black purse.

“And this as well,” Silva said, dangling a necklace out of the box by it's chain. The charm was in the shape of a black loop, studded with shining crystals. I cupped my hands, and Silva dropped the necklace in them.

“It's a wireless microphone. Very small, almost impossible to detect. If you encounter any difficulties, Isaac will be able to assist you.”

“It's lovely,” I said, feeling the cool metal around my neck as I put it on.

Silva glanced at his computer screen, which was switching between perspectives of the casino floor. Something caught his eye, and he paused the feed.

“That's your mark, dear,” Silva said, pointing at a man who matched the picture I'd seen earlier. He was of medium height and a solid build with a shaved head and dark eyebrows, standing over a roulette table with a disappointed expression. His suit was a flashy white with a red tie. Silva smirked.

“Why, you'll even match.”

Silva closed the computer and stood up.

“Shall we?” he said.

“You're coming too?” I asked, perplexed.

“I can have fun once in a while. I won't be walking up to the man and saying hello.”

“Are you sure?” I began, nervous. Silva leaned in and kissed me on the forehead.

“Shh, don't lose your head, darling. Don't lose your head.”

“If you insist.”

* * *

Pavel was still standing by the roulette table, thumbing through his remaining chips when I spotted him. I saw him gaze at me from across the room as I walked around, which was a good sign. If Silva had been correct about him--and I assumed Silva was always correct--then Pavel was a simple man, and he'd be led away from the table by simple distraction.

I milled about the room for about an hour to ease any suspicion, stopping to chat with a few men who either politely or drunkenly offered to buy me a drink, turning them all down with a smile. I only had eyes for the shiny head across the room from me, whom I was scoping out from afar. One man even offered me a few chips, and I proceeded to lose them all first on red, and then black at a different roulette table than the one my mark was at.

I lost sight of Silva almost immediately after we left the room, though he could hear everything I was saying through a flesh colored earpiece. After a decent period of time went by, I lingered at the roulette table next to Pavel, giving him a few less than subtle glances. As I closed in on the mark, I decided I'd amuse Silva by recounting our conversation.

“If you're intent on spending spending your money, you could at least buy a lady a drink, hm?” I said as I approached.

Pavel looked up from his chips and took sight of me, smiling with a self-assured satisfaction. It's true, a large number of the criminal sorts view themselves as God's gift to whatever gender they prefer, and this attitude is especially prevalent among the mid-ranking men, who tend to be young, cocky, and convinced that they are soon to climb the ladder to the tops of their respective organizations and need to start codlecting mistresses now.

“I would be delighted, miss...”

“Sévérine ,” I said. “It's a pleasure, mister...”

“Pavel Abramov.”

“Pavel. How lovely to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

I followed him over to the bar, looking to see if I could spot Silva. No such luck. Pavel and I sat down, and ordered from a petite Asian woman in a snow white wig. I asked for a champagne cocktail, Pavel ordered a beer. Simple enough, as Silva had said.

“Don't you go in for mixed drinks?” I asked, laughing. Small talk was a skill I had cultivated from years of scouting for customers during dry spells.

“If you can't get it out of a refrigerator, it isn't worth my time,” Pavel asserted.

“What's such a practical man as yourself doing here then?”

“I've got an interest in card games. Though, roulette is an easier game after you've had a few drinks. Just yell out your mother's birthday and see what happens.”

“How true.”

“Now, what brings a _lady_ like you down here?”

“Boredom! But, I'm terrible with cards and have no luck at roulette. There's so little to do.”

I smiled at him, trying my best to be seductive.

“Is that so?” he asked, grinning. It was working. The alcohol on his breath from prior drinks must have had something to do with his instantaneous belief that I was truly attracted to him. My only challenge now was slipping something into his beer.

“I'm no good at poker,” I said, “but I'd like to see you play.”

“I'm the best poker player from Tver,” Pavel laughed. “And likely the only one at that.”

We got up, and I followed him over to a table where a game of cards was beginning. I stood silent and smiling next to him, used to this routine. A few of the other players leered at me. I was distracting them. Standing there for almost an hour, I should have felt anxious, but I was completely serene. Once Silva had told me that Pavel worked for human traffickers, he was already dead in my eyes. It just hadn't quite caught up with him yet. I envisioned myself pinning him down, as I had once been pinned down, shoving the pistol down his throat, telling him to suck it off.

He looked over his shoulder at me. I smiled and waved. He was losing, I could tell that much.

I walked up behind him and whispered in his ear, "why don't I go get you a drink?”

Before he had time to protest, I was off to the bar. I ordered another beer, had it put on Pavel's room charge, and slipped in the powder by scooping some up from my purse in the palm of my hand, and then covering the very full glass with that hand as I walked back across the room. When I peered into the glass, there was no sign of the powder.

Perfect.

I went back to Pavel and sat the drink down next to him.

“It looks like things are settling down here. Why don't I go get freshened up and meet you back in your room in, say, fifteen minutes?” I whispered once again. I could feel his face pull tight in a smile.

“Room 257. I'll be waiting.”

Pavel took a swig of his beer as I walked away.

* * *

  
I rushed back up the stairs to our room as soon as I was out of Pavel's sight and burst through the door. I was finally beginning to feel nervous, and the anxiety I had avoided all night was hitting me in a crashing wave. I ran into the suite, my face flushed, hands bunched into fists at my side. Silva had been sitting up in the bed in the back of the room, his laptop resting on his knees, typing away as usual.

“Are you alright, dear? Everything sounded fine.”

I looked over and saw another shape in bed next to Silva. I walked over to his side of the room, past the couches and assorted end tables. Silva, fully dressed aside from his missing suit jacket and shoes, was sitting next to a young sleeping blond man, who was naked from at least the waist up. The rest of him was covered by the comforter.

“Who's that?” I asked, pointing to the guest.

“New friend,” Silva replied, not even looking away from his computer.

“Is he dead?”

Silva chuckled.

“I certainly hope not.”

“Why's he here?” I asked, still confused.

Silva looked at me over the top of his computer screen.

“Mixing business with pleasure. I told you, I can have fun too, dear.”

I decided to let it go, and pray that the man in Silva's bed didn't wake up.

“He's drugged. I'm supposed to meet him in his room in a few minutes.”

“Wonderful,” Silva said, closing the computer and getting up from the bed. “You are absolutely wonderful.”

He pulled me into his arms and nuzzled his head against mine. I relaxed in his embrace and unclenched my fists.

“He's already dead,” I whispered to Silva. “He died the moment he crossed us.”

“Yes, yes,” Silva breathed into my hair, wrapping his fingers up in the locks and brushing through. “You're such a good girl, Sévérine .” He stood frozen for a moment. “No, no, you're not a girl anymore.” He pulled away and looked me up and down. “Why, you're a lady. My mistake, darling. What a beautiful lady you are.” He leaned back in and kissed my hair.  
  
"I love you, Sévérine."  
  
I could have slipped through his fingers and melted into the floor. The man in the bed didn't matter anymore, nor did the gun between my legs, or the mark I was about to go shoot on Silva's orders.

“I love you too.”

* * *

  
I knocked twice in quick succession on Pavel's door, hoping that he hadn't passed out on the casino floor, or worse, passed out in bed. Within a few seconds though, the door clicked, and opened. Pavel stood in front of me with a goofy expression on his face.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he slurred, slamming the door shut behind me.

“Hello, hello,” I said, all deceptive smiles.

I looked at Pavel and saw not a man, but the imprisonment of my poor, lost mother. I saw the man I loved being betrayed to a foreign government who would hunt us down. I saw guns and drugs and women with tracks on their arms.

So when Pavel wrapped his arms around my waist and started sucking on my neck, I slowly lowered my hands down to his crotch, and then grabbed and squeezed as hard as I could.

He yelped and jumped off of me like he was on fire, but his slowed reflexes gave me time to dart my hand up my dress and grab the gun out of my holster.

“Shhh,” I said, holding the Beretta out in front of me. “Don't talk. You knew this was coming.”

Pavel jumped to his feet best as he could, but I pushed him back down with all my strength. It was like trying to get a wet blanket off. He fell to the ground with a clatter, but I suspected anyone who heard would mistake it for a more innocuous activity. I sat down on his chest and forced the gun into his mouth, making a show of flicking the safety.

“Your name is Pavel Abramov, is it not?”

He frantically nodded.

“And you launder money for an organization that kidnaps women and forces them into prostitution, correct?”

Pavel stayed stone still. I twisted the gun into his cheek.

“Answer me.”

He nodded once again.

I pulled the gun out of his mouth and rested it on his cheek.

“How do you know Tiago Rodriguez?” I hissed at him, teeth clenched. I felt terrifying and powerful, watching this piece of scum wither beneath my anger.

“Tiago Rodriguez” he asked, eyes frantic. “He's a cyber terrorist, crazy bastard... knew him back when he was working for MI6, laundering money on the side. Ran into him a few years ago, he'd just escaped imprisonment in China... got his face fucked up real bad, said he was tortured. Looked like one of those zombie movies, you know? I just held some money for him, that's all! Never had anything more to do with him, I swear. I don't even know where he went... goes by Raoul Silver now, I think. Something like that. I don't do business with him!”

“He was right,” I mused aloud. “You would crack under interrogation.”

I pushed my knee down on his neck with as much force as I could, and slammed my palms down over his face. I stayed like that with my eyes closed for what felt like an eternity, thinking once again, about my mother, about Silva, about the drugs and the guns and the women.

When I opened my eyes, Pavel wasn't breathing anymore.

I just about threw myself off him and jumped up. He was dead.

He was the second man I'd killed.

The reality hit me in one terrifying, sobering second, that there was a dead body in front of me, and I had no idea what to do with it, and I had killed him myself...

There was a knock on the door. My knees went weak and I almost fell over.

“Room service?” a familiar voice called.

I started laughing out of hysteria, and went to open the door a crack. It was Isaac, standing in the doorway in a housekeeping uniform.

“I believe you have a mess you need help cleaning up, ma'am?” Isaac said, smiling.

“Yes, please.”  
     



	9. My Life Had Stood- A Loaded Gun

Chapter Nine.

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -  
In Corners - till a Day  
The Owner passed - identified -  
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -  
And now We hunt the Doe -  
And every time I speak for Him -  
The Mountains straight reply -

* * *

 

I sat on the bed and smoked a stray cigarette that our poor departed Pavel had left sitting on the nightstand. Isaac wheeled a cleaning cart into the room, with a large gray trashcan on wheels attached to the back. He had changed out of his tuxedo into the hotel's housekeeping uniform.

“I didn't know you smoked,” Isaac said, teasing.

“I didn't know you worked for this casino,” I fired back.

“Ah, but we all do. Mr. Silva owns the casino.” Isaac snapped a pair of latex gloves on and picked up Pavel under his arms. “Now make yourself useful and take the lid off that trashcan.”

I got up and did as Isaac asked, pulling off the massive lid. It looked like the sort of thing you could go sledding on.

“Put a some gloves on; this could get messy.”

I winced, but reached over the the box of gloves on the cart and put a pair on. Isaac dragged Pavel's body over to the trashcan before heaving him up. I grabbed the ankles, and together, we clumsily maneuvered the man's body into the trashcan, from the waist down at least. Isaac took over from here, pushing and grasping at the corpse, until he had Pavel's body essentially bent over at the waist.

“One time,” Isaac began, cheerful, “I had to get rid of a big fellow. He was well over six feet, I remember. We put him in a bathtub and took his legs off with a bone saw.” He chuckled, while I felt nauseated at the thought. “Then we couldn't get his legs to fit in the can with the rest of him, and mind you, this was not at a hotel Mr. Silva owned—this was a clandestine operation if there ever was one, stealing uniforms, busting into this son of a bitch's room, taking him out, and then hauling the body out before anybody noticed—and then David, you've met David, right? David had to go out and run down to the housekeeping closet without anybody who worked there getting a good look at him, and grab another trashcan.”

“That's lovely,” I said, voice flat.

“Oh, don't act so scandalized, princess. From the looks of it, you strangled this man to death, yes? You're no better then the rest of us. Anyway, if it wasn't us killing them, someone else would get to it soon enough.”

“This is the price of making Raoul angry, I suppose?” I gave a little grim smile.

Isaac slammed the lid down on the trashcan, concealing Pavel's body.

“Mr. Silva is not an enemy you will have for long.”

“What happens to the body now?”

“I take it down to the boiler room, fill the can with lye, and two days from now, there's nothing left of this Pavel but some sludge.”

“We're not staying here for two more days, are we?” I asked, horrified at the thought. I was already homesick for the island, and sticking around the scene of the crime sounded unpleasant, to say the least. My nerves were shot, and I was attempting to cover it with cigarettes and Isaac's banter. I hadn't smoked since Macau, and I suppose that being in a strange man's hotel room in a tight dress was bringing back old habits. Though there were plenty of customers I wouldn't have minded seeing squished into a big rolling trashcan and melted down into nothing more than some goo.

“No, no. Mr. Silva has our people here—I told you, he owns the casino.”

“What do you mean, he owns it?”

“Mr. Silva paid someone a big chunk of money to let him keep all his funds here. And the name on the deed, they answer to Mr. Silva. So in about two days, somebody who knows us is going to go back down into the boiler room and dump what's left of Pavel here down the drain. Meanwhile, you'll be miles away, laying out on the beach, halfway to sunstroke, before Mr. Silva decides to get off his computer and come drag you inside.”

I scoffed and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on the side table.

“Throw out the whole pack and the lighter. Don't leave your prints lying around.”

“I'm keeping it,” I said, defiant. Isaac shrugged.

“Suit yourself. I'm going to take out the trash. Mr. Silva wants to see you now.”

Isaac opened the door and grabbed onto the cleaning cart.

“Isaac,” I said, before he left the room.

“Yes, princess?”

“That really tall guy you had to get rid of... what did he do?”

“Oh, him? He used to be one of our guards. Decided to leave.” Isaac shook his head. “He should have known better.”

Isaac walked out of the room and let the door to slam to a jarring close.

I felt sick.

* * *

Silva was pleased with my success in killing off Pavel, and let me know with a kiss on the forehead, as always.

“You are superb,” he told me, smiling wide and pacing around the hotel room. “Absolutely superb.”

“So, am I forgiven?” I asked.

Silva starred at me, as if he want confused.

“For what happened in Sicily,” I elaborated.

To my distress, Silva chuckled at this, as if his previous outburst had been a joke at my expense.

“Darling,” he said. “Darling, I could never be angry with you.”

I begged to differ, but didn't say as much.

“Can we go home now?” I asked.

Silva raised an eyebrow at me.

“So eager to leave already? I have business left to attend to here, though it's all terribly boring. Liquifying funds and transferring accounts... I don't suppose that interests you, hmm?”

I shook my head. Silva smirked, and I wanted to crawl under the bed to get away from him. All I could think about was that body sitting in a trashcan, soaked in lye. Heating up and boiling, and turning into nothing more than sludge. Silva lying in bed with some stranger; Isaac chopping up an old friend into pieces and laughing about it.

And this was where I belonged—cigarette in hand with lipstick on the filter, crushing a man's neck under my knee. Kill or be kill; fuck or get fucked. Reality stung my eyes and made my throat swell up.

“I want to go home,” I whispered.

“Very well then,” Silva conceded. “The casino is secure, so I'll have Isaac escort you back to the island today. I'll be returning tomorrow evening. You and he get along well, yes?”

“Yes, we do.”

Silva nodded in approval.

“I may have a task for the two of you shortly.”

I could only imagine what Silva's _task_ involved, and I must have made a face, because Silva frowned at me.

“The first kill is personal. The second is messy. It gets easier after that.”

I was taken aback by how easily he read my thoughts.

“I gave you a choice. That's more than you had before,” Silva continued. “Would you rather go back to them, hm?”

“No. No, no, no,” I gasped. “Never... I'd do anything to stay with you.” The walls were closing in on me. Silva's sudden transformation from amused to cruel was terrifying.

“I didn't think so.”

Silva was pacing around the room, while I stood still as stone, watching his movements.

“You must overcome this childish concept of morality. If you gave that man half a chance, he would have killed you too. I would think that after all that's been done to you, you would have realized. Humans are cruel and stupid. The only way to stay safe is to act preemptively. Cut their throats while they sleep, because they'll stab you in the back while they're awake.”

“How many people...” I whispered, not really intending for Silva to hear. But, he picked it up.

“More than I could tell you, darling.”

“Does it... bother you?” I asked.

“Sit down,” he commanded, and I did so almost automatically, turning and dropping down onto the couch. Silva stopped pacing in circles, and came over to sit next to me. He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me into his lap. Usually this was a comfort, sitting in Silva's lap on the island while he fiddled around with the computer. Not so much today. There was something incredibly intense about the action, how tightly he held me against himself. Silva clutched my wrist and pulled it up towards his face, leaving my hand to rest on his cheek. I could feel how unnatural the prosthetic was under his skin, hard and rigid right against the surface, holding the flesh in place. He then guided my hand down to the collar of his shirt.

“Unbutton it,” he said.

I hesitated, fingers trembling.

“Go on, do it.”

So I pulled on the buttons, working my way down and slowly exposing more and more of Silva's skin, with the silver slivers of scar tissue lining his clavicle and angry red burns as I reached further down his chest.

“No,” Silva whispered in my ear. “It doesn't bother me.”

He pressed a hand against the inside of my thighs.

“And it shouldn't bother you.”

I gasped at his touch and bit down on my lip to keep myself from tears.

“No more crying,” Silva said. He pulled away from the side of my face, and looked at me straight on. He had a particular way of looking at you, as if he could see right into the heart of you, and I could see into his. I felt all his anger, his betrayal.

“It's freedom,” Silva said.

He kissed me then, a _real_ kiss, no affection peck on the forehead or smack on the cheek. He bit down against my lower lip and pulled my waist into him so hard that I thought I might snap. It was as if he was trying to consume me, to bring me in so close to himself that I ceased to exist.

“I want to free you, my love.”

* * *

I wouldn't say that I _never_ felt guilty about the men I killed after that day.

But righteous anger is intoxicating.

Revenge is an addiction.

(And like any high, the longer you're on it, the less you care where it comes from. )

* * *

**May 2002.**

Life fit into a routine after Isaac and I returned from Macau. Silva became obsessed with expanding our operation, recruiting more guards, more computers, more server towers. He was on fire with a passion which seemed almost rootless, burning himself up with his fixation on having _more_.

“What Mr. Silva wants,” Isaac said to me, when he caught me staring at our new military helicopter with a perplexed expression, “Mr. Silva gets.”

Expanding our operations, that was the golden phrase, and Silva repeated it like it was magic. New guns, new friends, money pouring in from sources unidentifiable. Governments and militias, crooked corporations and drug lords. Silva groomed me as his personal assistant, the pretty girl with a dagger instead of a tongue and a gun where her heart should have been.

I could run exchange rates in my head: foreign currencies compared to bricks of cocaine; identify the type of pistol that was pointed at me under the table by the bunching in a suit jacket, slip roofies and ricin into a glass of wine without being seen. I wore stiletto heels and sharpened my nails to blood red points.

I was untouchable.

Isaac and I made a neat little duo, and the two of us got our kicks pinning middle men down on the floor and sticking guns in their faces until Mr. Silva got what Mr. Silva wanted. I smoked cigarettes I plucked up from my unfortunate beaus and blew rings in their faces, while Isaac waited in the passenger seats of their car with an AK-47.

I sat and watched with smug satisfaction while drugs were traded for cash, and took my cut off the top. I never understood quite how or why I was getting paid, but Silva had his hands in everything it seemed. No matter where we were in the world, Silva's name inspired a mix of respect and hatred.

Isaac and I were a perfect machine, and as long as we kept the money coming in, Silva let us skim a little off the top. I bought skin tight dresses and aggressively high heels from plastic faced sales women who stopped asking questions when I handed them Silva's golden credit card—we called it the master key, because it opened every door.

My time at home, as I had come to think of the island, grew less and less frequent. Silva stayed locked in his room at all hours of the day, but you could hear the manic tapping of keyboard keys if you stood outside the door. Occasionally, he'd emerge from the fortress, bleary eyed and exhausted. I'd bring him a bottle of wine, and we would drain it between the two of us, before collapsing into his bed and sleeping for what felt like days. He had hands all over me, and I could feel the tension growing between us like a static buzz in the air.

_What Mr. Silva wants, Mr. Silva gets._

* * *

In mid-June, Isaac and I, along with a small squad of other guards traveled to Turkey. Our goal was simple: there was a cartel whom Silva laundered funds for, with the agreement that Silva would take a certain cut of their profits. Through one of Silva's contacts, we learned that they had been hiding money, cheating Silva out of close to ten million euros. We were to reclaim the money, plus a little extra to teach them a lesson. It should have been easy.

The guards with me were all relatively new, Joseph and Adam from Somalia, and Kamil from The Czech Republic. Isaac was younger than Kamil and Adam, but he was closer to Silva and thus the leader of our little group. He seemed excited at the prospect of being a leader, and spent most of the helicopter ride to Turkey—using Silva's precious helicopter was something he was also excited about—rehearsing our strategy. The plan was that we would find the boss, Serkan, at a bar in Ankara, which Silva's contact had assured us he visited often. I would approach him and lead him outside into an alley, making it seem that I intended to have sex with him right then and there. At this point, all the guards would jump him, and drag him into the van we intended on renting. We would then more or less point a gun at him until he coughed up ten million euros in cash or heroin, whichever he preferred.

We got off the helicopter in a rural farming town outside of Ankara, where it was generally understood by the locals to not ask questions. We rented a van from a farmer, and drove into the city that night, scoping out the bar our operation was to take place at.

Everything went smoothly at first. I entered the bar around ten that evening, after we saw Serkan enter from our surveillance post on the other side of the street. Kamil pulled the van around to the alley behind the bar and cut the headlights. I entered the bar: short dress, heavy makeup, Beretta cold against my leg.

It was a small and dark place, not a tourist spot by any means. The majority of the patrons were men in their thirties and forties. Rough looking men at that, with thick beards and grim expressions. Serkan wasn't difficult to spot: he had an air of authority about him. Someone who was used to getting their way. He was a large man, heavyset with dark skin and curly black hair. He was clean shaven, and had a light red scar on the underside of his chin. He spoke English, as did his friends. They probably fancied themselves to be international businessmen.

Serkan chatted and laughed with the other men sitting at the bar, but there was an obvious tension between him and all those below him. I had him read within a few seconds of spotting him. He thought he was above not only the law, but his fellow man.

Silva wasn't someone who could be screwed over. Serkan would have to learn the hard way.

I did my usual routine: approached him with my smoldering smile, asked for a drink. Easy. In this crowd, I said I wanted a beer. He laughed at that, something about women who were easy to please. We talked, he postured for his buddies. I could tell he was used to being approached by women, was comfortable wielding power. His voice was smooth and untroubled as he talked about his political views, of which there were many. His friends chimed in with drunken agreements, and I smiled and purred my approval, drinking slowly to avoid being offered another beer.

I ran my hand down his thigh and asked him if he wanted to go outside for some air _._ He hastily agreed, and his friends did an obnoxious cheering routine.

 _Men_.

He led me outside, into the alleyway. I was comforted by the sight of the ugly white van, sitting in wait just a few meters away. It was rusted to the point where it looked like it had been sitting there for years. Serkan was drunk and lustful. He sucked on my neck and started fiddling with the straps of my dress.

As soon as his face was buried into my shoulder, the doors of the van burst open, and out came Isaac and company, guns drawn. Serkan screeched when they pulled him off of me, and hauled him off, kicking and yowling into the back of the van. Joseph and Adam held down his arms, while I stood above him, smirking. Kamil was driving, and he sped away the second we closed the doors. The van had all the seats ripped out, except for the driver and shotgun. Isaac and Kamil sat up front, while the rest of us rocked around in the back.

Adam picked up a pair of handcuffs off the van floor and snapped them onto Serkan's wrist. Joseph got the other wrist. I smiled.

“Bitch!” he howled at me. “You fucking cun—”

I slipped the gun out from under my dress and pressed it against his face.

“Shush.”

He gave me a look that could have burnt through steel.

“Do you know who I am, Serkan?” I asked. His anger made me want to laugh. Here he was, this big, scary man, rendered helpless by his own sex drive and a girl with a gun. “I am Raoul Silva." 

“Bullshit. You're not Raoul Silva; you're a little whore.”

“And you owe me ten million euros.”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“That's not very nice.”

“They're going to come find us, you know. They will. And when they do, they'll shoot your boys here, shoot them right up. And then we'll pull that tight dress of yours off, and...”

Isaac turned around in his seat and hit Serkan over the back of the head with the butt of his pistol.

“Please, shut up,” Isaac sighed.

“Where's the money you've been hiding from us?” I asked, leaning against the wall of the van to keep myself from stumbling over. It was hard to look threatening while on my knees, so I was bent over at the waist, a few inches from Serkan's face. “Did you think we wouldn't notice?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can't cheat us out of anything. If you expect us to launder your money, then you'll pay us our cut.”

“Fuck, company,” Kamil said, glancing into the rear view mirror.

Serkan grinned.

“They're coming for you, little girl.”

I slapped him across the face with the barrel of the gun, hard enough to make his nose bleed.

“You're an arrogant bastard, you know that?”

He smiled at me through the blood.

Kamil was weaving in and out of streets, fast enough to make me tumble onto the floor. The old van was rickety and slow, no match for whoever was chasing us.

“Pull into the parking garage,” Isaac yelled to Kamil, and we swerved sharp to the left. “Stop, stop!”

The van came to a sliding stop, and Isaac got up from his seat.

“Open the back doors, open the back doors,” he insisted. Adam did as he asked, and that was when I saw the two cars facing me. They were black sedans, full of angry men with guns. It was almost pitch black in the garage, and I couldn't make out much but the light of the cars.

I was terrified.

And then some strange instinct took over, and I stuck the pistol into Serkan's mouth.

“Get out of the cars!” I shouted. Adam, Joseph, Isaac, and myself got out of the van, pushing Serkan along with us. Isaac had an assault rifle. I felt slightly comforted.

The headlights were glaring, and I could barely see. I watched the silhouettes emerge from the vehicles. My pistol was still jammed into Serkan's mouth.

“Why would you not pay the person who controls all of your money?” I asked Serkan, loud and theatrical enough that all the men would hear. I then turned to face them. “I want our ten million euros tonight. Or all of your money will disappear. Right now!” I had to yell to be heard over the wind.

I saw the silhouettes facing each other, unsure what to do. Were they going to take orders from a little girl in a dress? I felt a flash of rage come over me. They thought they didn't have to take me seriously.

“Let me show you the price of disobeying Raoul Silva!”

And then I pulled the trigger on Serkan.

I don't know just what possessed me to act so rashly. I was angry at his arrogance. That he thought he could get away with trying to cheat Silva. I was angry that I wasn't being taken seriously.

Serkan crumpled to the ground almost immediately. I heard Isaac mumble something unintelligible behind me.

“I'm waiting,” I called out to the men standing across from the van.

“This is a dangerous game,” Isaac hissed in my ear. I shrugged, too high on adrenalin to care.

It took a few minutes, for them to talk amongst themselves and presumably recover from the fact that I had just shot their boss right in front of them. Every criminal knows that they're going to go out like that, but they don't expect their end to come at the end of a gun wielded by someone they moments ago, thought was a prostitute.

Finally, an answer came from one of the silhouettes.

“We will go and bring back your money.”

“I don't think so,” I called back. “Half of you stay here. Remember, if you fail to come back within two hours...” I didn't need to finish.

After some bickering, one car of men piled back in and drove away. The other stood and watched me, their guns out for show. There was nothing they could do to me without losing all of their money, not even after I killed Serkan.

This was the sort of power you could get hooked on.

The next hour was maddeningly tense, standing there with guns drawn, until the car pulled back in. They kicked over a plastic box. It was full of euros, held together with rubber bands. I plucked one out and held it up to the headlights glow. It was real. I smiled, and nodded to Isaac, who with Adam's help, hoisted the container into the back of the van.

“Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen!”

I kicked Serkan's body out of the way and hoisted myself into the back of the van.

“Drive!” Isaac yelled at Kamil, shuffling up to the passenger seat. He laughed. “My God. What got into you, princess?”

* * *

**September 2002.**

Silva had been working on for some long and arduous project for weeks. It was a long summer , and the sun was burning up the island so hot that going outside was risky. I loved the house, the beach, the ocean, but I was beginning to understand the limitations of our home. More guards filtered in from all around the world; Silva recruited them through one or another of his dubious business connections. We were running out of room, more or less.

“Why do we need so many men?” I asked Silva one day, when he left the door to his bedroom slightly ajar—an invitation for me to enter. “Are you planning an invasion?” I was only half joking; with Silva's obsessive focus on _expansion_ , I wouldn't have been terribly surprised if he was planning a coup.

“Not exactly,” Silva replied. “Setting up a network,” he began to explain, never taking his eyes off the computer screen, which was flashing with lines of text I couldn't begin to decipher. “Bring people in here, train them, send them out.”

“Out?”

“To our areas of operations. We need eyes everywhere. If our friends in Turkey knew they were being watched, your intervention last month would not have been required.”

“I would have appreciated that.”

“Ah, but you handled yourself spectacularly, darling.” Silva paused for a moment, and then turned to look at me. “This island is Tiago's island. We have no place here now. There's a beautiful town off the coast of Macau. Perfect for our purposes.”

“Is it inhabited?” I asked.

“For now,” Silva said, smiling.

His response made me nervous.

“And how do you intend on remedying that?”

“There's a pesticide plant on the island. We make it look like the plant is about to leak, and claim the island.”

“How?”

“It's amazing, what you can do from a hotel room with a laptop computer.”

* * *

So, we took the island. I sat next to Silva in a lovely hotel suite, a room he later designated as his bedroom, and watched while he tapped in the final commands. Barely a minute later, sirens began sounding. It was mass chaos, and I watched from our window. People ran from their houses in a panic, arms full of possessions. They were stumbling over each other and crying, not sure what to take with them and what to leave.

I felt Silva's breath on the back of my neck, and it made me involuntarily shudder for just a moment.

“People have so many unnecessary things,” he said. “Hanging onto their memories out of misplaced nostalgia, keeping possessions which serve only to weigh them down.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, and ran his fingers through my hair.

“What happens to Tiago's island?” I asked him.

“Didn't Isaac tell you?” Silva asked. “It's burning down as we speak.”

Silva leaned in and kissed my neck. I gasped slightly, and leaned into him. He put two arms around my waist and held me close.

“Do you like this hotel, darling?”

“Mhm.”

“Then it's ours.”

“I like this. What else?”

“Hmm, how about that statue?”

I looked out the window, to the giant statue of a standing man in the town square.

“No. It's ugly,” I laughed.

“We'll have it knocked down.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

Silva kissed my neck again.

“I have a present for you.”

“And what could that be?” I said, smiling.

Silva walked away from me for a moment, and grabbed his computer.

“Come here,” he said, and I walked over to perch on the corner of the bed. He handed me the computer. The screen had the sneering mug shot of a European man on display.

“This is Dominik Koleno. Slovakian. During the late 80's and early 90's, he trafficked hundreds of girls to China. One of them would have been your mother.”

I felt my throat tighten.

“I'll take you to him,” Silva said. “Happy birthday, Severine.”

* * *

 To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -  
None stir the second time -  
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -  
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live  
He longer must - than I -  
For I have but the power to kill,  
Without--the power to die--

_(Emily Dickinson, My Life Had Stood—A Loaded Gun.)_


	10. Still Another Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ***Please Read Me*:** Stated archive warnings are in effect for this chapter. The content skirts on the edge between mature and explicit. The depiction of the aftermath of sex work and abuse I present in this story is not meant to be a universal comment on recovery from abuse, or a comment on anything other than the character's personal journey. Please read at your own discretion.

Today is dead winter in the forgotten land 

that comes to visit me, with a cross on the map 

and a volcano in the snow,

to return to me, to return again the water

fallen on the roof of my childhood.

( _Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day I_ )

* * *

 

Chapter Ten. 

Silva killed the engine on our rickety gray sedan a few blocks into the New Town district of Bratislava. We picked up the car as a rental in Austria with fake identification, and drove across the border without issues. The whole way there, Silva had been spouting off the history of the Slovakian Mafia, and Dominik himself. 

“Cunning bastard,” was Silva's general opinion of the man. “Fled to Russia during communist rule in the 70's, did whatever dirty work the Mafia didn't want to touch themselves—quite a few executions.” Silva made a cut-throat gesture with his index finger across his neck and gagged like he was dying. “In the eighties when communism began to fall, organized crime in the former USSR was inevitable, and the mob sent him back to Slovakia to keep an eye on things. The sex trade has always been around, of course, but the global sex trade took off when communism crumbled, and Dominik became the country's kingpin of buying, trafficking, and selling. He's somewhat retired now, but keeps his eyes on things, and isn't adverse to a business venture now and then. He owns a popular bar in Bratislava. Most of his men have their hands in the cities restaurant business.” Silva chuckled. “I fear for the safety of Slovakia's food critics.” 

“And he sold my mother?” I asked. 

“Undoubtedly. Dominik was, and still is, _the_ sex trafficker of Slovakia. It would have been unthinkable for anyone to work in defiance of him. How old are you, hm? Eighteen? So your mother was sent to China in eighty-five, became pregnant almost immediately without forced sterilization, and was turned out on the streets after she began showing.” 

Silva paused, and pursed his lips, as if there was a bad taste in his mouth. 

“I don't conduct business with slavers, so I've never had the pleasure of meeting Dominik. But, I'm well aware of his business associates and their practices. He speaks Russian fluently, and most likely English, however, there is no use in rousing his suspicions with English. You won't be able to understand what I'm saying.”

I nodded. Given Silva and I's plan—which I had concocted myself—it was probably for the best that I didn't understand the specifics of their conversation. 

Silva rolled his shoulders to crack them. He seemed tense.

“We should go over the plan again,” he said. 

“We walk into the bar,” I began. “I follow you at a close distance, looking tired and frightened. You go to the bar and ask to speak to Dominik. You say that you've been referred to him by some Russian mobster. Impressed, the bartender brings Dominik down. He has no fear of the police, and you conduct your business in public. I'm a girl from your village who's father has been stricken ill and has no money to pay for treatment. I am to be sold to pay for the family's bills, you came to Dominik as a favor to my family because you know he is the most fair. Dominik will be skeptical at first and assume you're a police rat, until you offer to let him take me to bed to assure himself that I would be a good investment. Dominik leads me upstairs to his bedroom, and I terminate him.”

Silva nodded slowly. 

“And if something goes wrong?” he asked, soft. 

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” I replied, my face and voice hard as stone.

“Good girl,” Silva said. 

I was wearing a pornographically short red dress and cheap white stiletto heels, the points of which I had filed to an angle while we drove. My nails were the same tacky white, and ended in points. I wasn't wearing makeup, not pretty make up at least, at Silva's insistence. The word he had used to describe what I should look like was “blotchy.” So instead of my normal smoky eyes, I smeared purple eyeshadow in half moons under my lower eyelids and brushed near white powder over my skin. The ever present Beretta was rubbing between my thighs, secure in it's holster. 

“How do I look?” I asked Silva with a roll of my eyes as the car came to a halt.

“Lovely,” he responded. “It's impossible for you to be anything but.” 

Silva himself was dressed in a loose black sweater and slacks. His normally impeccable hair was loose and greasy with some gunk he'd applied earlier. He looked like Eurotrash; alien blonde, Spanish, Eurotrash, with a British accent. We were going to stick out like we had two heads a piece.

“Ready?” Silva asked me. It was a loaded question. 

“As ready as I can be.”

It was dusk when we had left Austria, and by now nightfall had set in over the city. The streets were a maze of highrise apartments, cobbled together with lower houses and churches. Black Mercedes cruised about—the mafia's vehicle of choice—letting us know that we were close to our target. 

The location of our target was a low slung brick building on a street corner, crowded by the ubiquitous Mercedes and men in all black, milling about outside and laughing. I bristled. I knew that my appearance was going to cause a fuss, and it did for a moment. Until they saw Silva, who smiled so serene and unbothered, that it silenced all the boisterous chatter.

It clicked for me then, former MI6 agent, Tiago Rodriguez. Silva didn't stick out in a crowd as much as he commanded it. I followed close behind him, trying my hardest to keep my balance in my needlepoint heels. Silva wrapped an arm around my shoulder, smiled with all his teeth, and pulled open the door to the bar.

The inside was about what I expected, lots of smoke, more men in black sitting around wooden tables, mulling about—playing card games, yelling boisterously, drinking tall glasses of beer. They could have all been twins, with their shaved heads and black clothes. The lights were dim and the walls were made of a crumbling gray brick. The whole place felt as if it was full of fog, like I was wading through some thick, viscous air that Silva kept tugging me further into.

I heard a few whoops in my direction. Silva glared. It was sufficient to make them shut up. 

We sat down at the bar, and Silva kept up his slimeball act, rubbing my shoulders and pecking kisses on my cheek. I winced and squeezed my shoulders, as I was told. I was to look as though we were unfamiliar with each other. Silva ordered a beer, just one, and then began chattering with the bartender—a burly and broad shouldered sort with an almost cliché scar on his forehead—in Russian. There was some form of disagreement between them, I could discern from the bartender's raised voice. But Silva kept his cool, as always, dropping a string of names I couldn't begin to identify. The bartender was either impressed or annoyed—his straight face was unreadable. But, he tossed a rag down on the counter and turned for the flight of stairs behind the bar. 

Silva nudged my ankle with his shoe. I assumed that this was a sign of success. My pulse was jumping like a frightened rabbit. 

I thought about what I would do when I was face to face with the man who sold my mother; who effectively sold me. Who ripped girls up from their families for a pittance and sent them to a hell where they didn't speak the language—where their arms were stabbed with heroin needles, where they slowly wasted away to nothing, lasting to maybe the age of twenty-five if they were lucky, only to be put down with an overdose once they got too tired to fuck. I wanted to march up those stairs myself, high heels be damned. I wanted to put the bullet in his head; I wanted him to look into my eyes and feel the pain of pills and rape and days blurring together, until all you could imagine was the release of death to break up the monotony. 

In Turkey, I shot a man and told him I was Raoul Silva, and this was what happened to anyone who tried to cross Raoul Silva. 

In Slovakia, I wanted to tell this man that I was a woman, and this was what happened to anyone who thought he could buy and sell us like cattle. 

My hands and feet shook with anger; my eyes were blinded by the pressure of tears I could not risk crying; the gun against my leg was begging to be set free, to be put to use against every miserable fuck in the room. 

A pat on the arm from Silva brought me back to reality. I looked up from the floor, only to find myself staring at the face of Dominik Koleno, human trafficker extraordinaire. 

I had created a caricature of this man in my mind, tall and muscular with vicious eyes and slick manicured facial hair, with a scar cutting through his eyebrow and devilish thin lips. A sharp tailored suit in shiny shark gray. A handgun on his hip, no fear of being seen with a gun.

The real Dominik Koleno was much less intimating on first sight. He was older than I expected, perhaps only in his forties, but half a lifetime as an illegal under the regime of the USSR had weathered his face to crinkles. He was shorter than myself or Silva, standing just a bit taller than a meter and a three fourths. His eyes were dark and wide, his shoulders narrow, and his posture rigid. His head was shaved, but about half an inch of dark brown hair was growing in. His nose was bulbous and his face was clean shaven. He was wearing a gray sweater and tan slacks. He did not look like a mob lord. He looked like the custodians at an airport. How, I wondered, how had this man done so much harm to so many?

He and Silva spoke in a jovial tone, still in words I did not understand. There was some gesturing towards me from both parties, including some vulgar squeezing motion made at the air around my breasts by Silva. Under any other circumstances, I would have laughed, but I was quite frankly, terrified. It brought me back to the age of twelve again, wandering into the brothel's main room, the girls standing with their drugged up blank faces, and a number pinned to each of their bra's. 

I trusted Silva though, and that trust was the only thing that kept me from turning tail and bolting out of the bar, out onto the street. Even after our first meeting and the gun, his irrational anger and mood swings, the lustful glances I'd catch in his eyes as I walked out of his room in the morning, I trusted him. Silva had kept me safe, from the day we'd first met. Not by locking me in an ivory tower and hiding me away from the world, but by giving me a gun and teaching me how to use it. Silva had given me back something I had never known had been stolen from me: my body, my mind, the way my fingers could curl around the trigger of a Beretta and pull. 

So when Silva motioned for me to follow Dominik up to his bedroom, I did so. Dominik grabbed me by the wrist, hard enough to bruise, and pulled me away. I followed him up the rickety flight of stairs which he had descended from, and up into a small hallway. He pushed open a wooden door and followed me in.

We were inside his bedroom, which was, once again, not what I expected. No tiger pelts or blood red sheets, no sex swings or wall mounts. Just a small, brick lined bedroom with a king sized bed cloaked in a utilitarian brown blanket, a wooden clothing dresser, and a laptop computer. The room had two windows on the wall across from the bed, which looked out onto an empty alley. A lamp was tucked into the corner next to the dresser, and cast a yellowish light over the room. 

“ _Krovat,_ ” he said, pointing towards the bed. I assumed the meaning of his words, and turned to walk towards the bed. This was a mistake. I should have shot him the second I had the chance, rather than toying with him. He wasn't drugged, not like most of my marks, who were easy to take advantage of when their judgment lapsed and breathing slowed.

I laid down supine on the bed, while I watched him fumble with the buckle on his belt. This was the second opportunity that I had, and should have, could have taken. But I was too caught up in the romanticism of it, the idea of him straddling my body, thinking he was about to have my way with me, only to have every one of his sins shoved in his mouth as the barrel of a gun.

He came striding on over, sweater still on, pants opened at the fly, half hard erection hanging out like a piece of sausage. When his knees hit the mattress, I reached up my dress and freed the Beretta from my holster, snapping my elbow into his face and then wielding the gun out in front of me. 

Dominik laughed. 

He smacked my right arm with all his strength, and I cried out in pain. I lost hold of the gun, and it flew across the room, hitting the floor against the dresser. In a burst of recklessness, I forced myself out from under him, and tried to leap for the gun, only to feel a pair of hands grab around my waist. 

“ _Mandavoshka,_ ” he barked at me, pushing his fists into my stomach so hard that I was starved of oxygen. I wanted to scream, but I didn't have the air to do it. 

Dominik yelled more insults at me, and tried to get a hand up my dress, while still holding me still. He managed to roll up the one side past my underwear, and grabbed my thigh. At which point, I took a step back and stomped my sharpened heel into his foot. He howled in pain, and I felt the break of the fabric of his shoes, and the crushing of flesh. Encouraged, I stepped down again. He screamed, and bit down into my shoulder. 

I was in a fair deal of pain at this point, to say the least, and trying to keep my head clear enough to remain logical. He bit me, I would bite back. I raised my foot up and stomped into his pulverized foot over and over again, until I felt his grip on me finally loosen along with the first crunch of broken bone. I bolted out of his arms and ran for the gun, jumping down on the floor to cover it with my whole body. I heard him stomping over behind me, dragging his bad leg behind him, shouting at me. He yanked at my foot to pull my shoe off, and tugged at me with such force, I slid across the floor. But, I managed to reach under my abdomen to take the gun. I jerked my leg back with enough force that he stumbled. I took the opportunity to pull myself out of his grasp, and rolled over so I was sitting down on the floor. With Dominik charging at me, I clicked the safety off and shot every last bullet from the clip into his chest. 

Dominik died with a look of surprise on his face. Like he didn't think I would really be able to do it. His mouth was open ever so slightly, his wide eyes even wider, eyebrows raised. I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled together, dress hiked up past my underwear, smeared violet eyeshadow running down my face from the tears I'd started crying unconsciously. 

That's how Silva found me when he burst in through the door, gun drawn. He assessed the situation in a second—blood all over the floor, Dominik dead, my tears and ruined dress. I suppose in that second, he thought the worst had occurred—or at least the worst I could live through.

“We need to go,” Silva said, curt and hard as ever. The look on his face suggested that time was of the essence. I hobbled up off the floor, attempting to compose myself. I pulled my dress back down to it's proper position and put the gun back into my holster. Meanwhile, Silva grabbed the lamp and smashed it through the window, casual as could be. 

“I'll jump first,” he explained. “And I'll catch you. You're going to get cut. Don't let your wrists touch the glass.” 

I followed Silva, as he pushed his shoulders together, and did, indeed, jump out the window. He clung to the underside of the window, and I winced as tiny shards of glass cut into his skin. I could hear people running up the stairs behind me, so I pushed mysetallf out as well. I wasn't thinking quite properly though, and I just dropped, catching my leg on the bottom of the windowsill, and cutting my knee. I went down flat, and would have ended up as a pancake on the concrete, had Silva not gotten up and caught me by the waist in time. He stumbled over with the force of my impact, and for a brief second, we were both laying on the ground. I think both of us were considering just staying there, until we heard shouting from upstairs. Silva looked at me and frowned.

“Don't bleed out,” he commanded, as if it was something I could control. His own fingers were oozing blood. I gingerly touched my wounded leg. 

“It's shallow,” I whispered, unable to talk any louder. 

“We need to run.” 

“I know.” 

“Take off your shoes.” 

I made quick work of my shoes and tossed them off to the side of the alley, into a pile of trash bags. Silva got up and pulled me up with him. We were quite the sight, running through Bratislava at three in the morning, me in my short red dress with a bloody leg to match, and trashy Silva with his red stained fingers. I don't know how we made it to the car before they caught us, because I could hear the shouts and macho posturing going on outside the bar, the slamming of car doors and the revving of engines. But, no one seemed to be moving. 

It didn't occur to me then, panic stricken and scared as I was, that maybe they were all happy that someone else had done the job for them, so they didn't have to wait around for the old man to die to try to become the top dog.

Silva unlocked the car, and the two of us stumbled in, cursing our injuries. Silva fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and turned on the car. 

He gripped onto the steering wheel without complaint, and we sped off. I closed my eyes and tried to just forget. The last half an hour felt like the most vivid nightmare—something so truly awful, it couldn't be real. Silva didn't say a word until we had driven out of the city. Finally, when the skyline was fading behind us, and the road was bordered by farmland, Silva spoke. 

“Did he...” 

“No,” I answered, in a short burst, before anymore could be asked. I didn't want to hear the word. I didn't want to think about it. But, I couldn't stop envisioning those last few moments over and over again. The look of surprise on his face. Like he couldn't believe it, he was really dead. He wasn't afraid of me. He had been bemused by me, to the very end. 

“I failed,” I said, soft. And then I started to weep. 

* * *

I don't know how long we drove on like that, Silva staring ahead at the road, me with my face hidden into clenched hands, trying to stifle the tears I couldn't stop. He knew better than to try to talk now, and left me in peace until day rose, and we pulled into an empty field. 

I looked up and saw nothing through the windows but plants and empty sky. 

“Where are we?” I asked. 

“Out of the car, dear,” was Silva's only reply. 

I did as he told me, too numb to ask anything more. Silva plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket, and walked around to the gas cap of the car. 

“I need you to walk as far away as you can now, and still be able to see me,” Silva said. I nodded, blank, and once again, did as I was told. I watched from a far as Silva fiddled with the handkerchief and the car, before turning and running towards me. Behind him, the car exploded into a mess of melted steel and fire. 

“The closest village is five kilometers,” Silva said to me, very matter of fact. He looked down at my bare feet. “Do you need me to carry you?”

I laughed, humorless, and shook my head no. 

So we walked. It took us an hour and a half to reach this village, with me hobbling the whole way on tender feet. I wouldn't let Silva help me. I already felt weak enough. We were quite a sight in the early morning hours in some remote Slovakian hamlet, from the Eurotrash pimp and his working girl, to a bloody city pimp and the world's least appealing hooker, with a leg smeared brown. We walked into a house which Silva insisted was an inn. There was an older woman inside, and Silva spun her a story I couldn't understand—but later learned was about a car accident and I being his niece for whom he had driven to Bratislava to save from a life of whoring herself, so on and so forth. The woman was unsympathetic until Silva pulled out his wallet, which was flush with Euros.

We were led back to a small bedroom, with an attached bathroom. Silva graciously thanked the woman, and then dismissed her, saying that he needed to give me a good talking to. With the door closed shut, I collapsed onto the bed and squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. 

“Sévérine ,” Silva said. “Sévérine . What happened?” 

“I was stupid,” I said, more to the pillow than to Silva. “I let him get the upper hand.” 

I felt Silva sit down at the foot of the bed. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“I wanted him to know why he was dying,” I explained. “I wanted him to go to his grave, thinking on his sins. I wanted him to suffer for them. But he laughed at me. Even when he died, he was smiling. Like he couldn't believe it. He thought I was just a hit, just a hit in a pretty package.” I started choking up, and had to roll over on my side to breathe. “He should have died knowing it was his own fault. He should have seen it in my eyes. But he didn't. He'll never know, or feel regret for his crimes. I failed my mother's memory. I failed myself. He got his hand up my dress. He called me some awful names... he was going to... he made me so small. I was so afraid.” 

“Sévérine ,” Silva said again. “Do you want to come here?” He opened up his arms, and I tentatively crawled up from my position laying on the bed and moved over to him. 

Silva took me in his arms and rested my head against his chest. 

“You didn't fail, darling. He's paying for his sins now. He saw it as he died, he knew once that last bit of life was snuffed out of him, just what he had done. And now, now he'll never hurt _anyone_ again. No one. All because of you, dear.” 

“Are you sure?” I said, sniffling. 

Silva kissed the top of my head. 

“I'm sure. Shhh, shhh, darling. He's gone now. He's powerless. You made him powerless.” 

I kept crying, tired and weak and so overwhelmed. 

Silva's arms were warm and strong and I wanted to sink into him forever; I wanted to push our molecules together until we were one in the same; I wanted him to never, ever let go of me in that moment. I cried until his shirt was soaking wet, until my eyes were swollen and breathing was once again, difficult. 

If you want to know then, how I could have loved a man like Silva, perhaps you have your answer now. 

While I clung onto him, the fight and the gun and Dominik's smile rushing through my head, Silva hummed to me, some Spanish lullaby, and brushed his free hand through my hair. He didn't sing , per say, just hummed and whispered now and then, _“Duérmete niña,”_ before picking up the tune again, a soft and low melody that eventually put me to sleep, curled up around him. 

* * *

I slept for hours and hours, waking up in the evening, with sore eyes and a dry mouth. Silva was awake, of course, and had a new dress for me laying out on the desk—the only piece of furniture aside from the bed—and a plate with a roll and two apples. 

“Darling,” he said in a sing song voice. “The bathtub is ready.” 

I stared at him blank, not fully awake yet, and perplexed by what I would be doing with a bathtub. 

“...for you to clean the blood off,” Silva finished, staring curiously at me. “How are you...”  
“Fine,” I said, before he could finish. “I feel fine.” 

I rushed into the bathroom and stripped off the dirty dress, which I had no desire to see again. The water was lukewarm, but it was better than being covered with blood. I assumed Silva had debated about whether to wake me or not. I sat in the tub with my knees drawn up to my chest and watched as my blood unfurled in the water. 

Cleaned up, I wrapped the towel laying on the toilet around myself, and went back into the bedroom. Silva was graciously facing the opposite wall. I pulled on the new dress; it was loose and blue and went down to my ankles. I supposed it was difficult to find any sort of woman's clothing in this town while traveling on foot. 

“I'm dressed,” I said to Silva, who turned around. He was still in the all black outfit, but his hair was no longer full of gunk.

“Breakfast?” he asked, almost cheerful. I laughed. He was making an effort. 

“This,” I began, plucking an apple off the desk, “is suspiciously similar to the first time I met you.” 

“How so?” Silva asked, taking a bite of his own. 

“Hotel rooms, breakfast...” I said, leaving out a few key items. “Murder.” 

Silva chuckled. 

“What can I say, darling? We're a force of nature.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Silva said. I looked up at him, curious. “It's a proposition, if you will.” 

“Go on.” 

“What scared you last night? What was it that made you feel powerless?” 

I paused. It seemed so self evident, I didn't understand why Silva needed to ask. 

“That he was going to take my body away from me,” I said. “Use it for himself. Control me.” 

Silva nodded, tapping his fingers against the table. 

“Sex,” Silva said, just a statement. I didn't understand what he meant by it. 

“Sex?” 

“Does sex make you feel powerless?” 

I took a bite of the apple.

_Snap._

“I suppose, yes.” 

“If I was to let you have power over me.” 

_Crunch._

“Would you want that?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Pin me down,” Silva said, licking his bottom lip ever so slightly. “Make me pleasure you. Take it back.” 

“Take _what_ back?” 

“Sex. Sex is a weapon. It's a power. It belongs to you. It's always belonged to you. And I want you to take it back.”

“...why?” 

“Because,” Silva said. “I want to set you free, my love.”

* * *

I remember how strange it felt to hike the dress up around my waist, all that fabric just hanging there. I didn't want to take it off, not if it was about power, anyway. 

Silva laying down on the bed, like he was a rag doll, just thrown there, except for that smile of his. The sweater was off, and his patchwork skin was on display, a painful reminder every time I saw it of how similar we really were.

I got up onto the bed and straddled Silva's chest, sitting down on top of him with my legs spread open. He ran his hands up the inside of my thighs, closer and closer. 

“Come here... “ Silva whispered, looking up at me. I raised myself up and moved forward. “Shhh, that's right. I'll make you feel so good...go on, make me do it...”

I began to lower myself down over him, trying my best to breathe normally, to not panic. All the sex I'd ever been subjected to, no one had ever dreamed of doing something for me. It felt like something completely foreign from sex, so far removed from anything I'd experienced. 

“Now,” Silva said, his voice soft and smooth, “when I squeeze your legs, you need to let up on me.” 

“Mhmm.”

“Go on now, darling...”

Silva undid me; he opened me up and consumed me. He set every nerve in my body on fire; he kissed the life out of me with his wicked tongue and lips, and I cried for him to do it again. His fingers pushed in on my thighs and worked against me while I let him breathe, panting and lightheaded myself. 

“Keep going,” he whispered, “suffocate me.” 

I was wet and sticky when he was through, so sensitive that I screamed when he touched my stomach.

“More?” he asked, smiling. 

“No,” I laughed. “No, no more.” 

I rolled off Silva, and laid down next to him. He stroked the side of my face, absentmindedly.

“You're so lovely,” he whispered. “So lovely.”

* * *

A “friend” of Silva's met us that night a little ways out of town—in the opposite direction of the charred car. She was a petite woman, likely in her thirties, with a bag full of false documents for us to get out of the country. 

“You have friends everywhere, don't you?” I remember telling Silva with a laugh.

“There are always friends around, if you know the right place to look,” he replied. 

Silva's new friend had a car, which Silva offered to relieve her of for an exorbitant amount of Euros. We drove North to Poland, where we dumped the car at the airport, and took a string of planes over the next day that lead us to Vladivostok, in the southernmost part of Russia, where there was the welcome sight of our boat sitting in the bay. 

I was exhausted by this time, and the second I got my feet on the deck, I bolted downstairs to get some sleep in a real bed. Silva followed me down at a distance, so by the time I had just laid down, I heard the door open again. 

“Sévérine?” he said, testing to see if I was awake.

“Yes?” I replied, hazy. 

“You did an excellent job.” 

“Thank you...”

“You're not a child anymore, darling. Far from it.” 

“Thank you...” I said again, too tired to comprehend the meaning of his words. 

I heard the door to the bedroom close, Silva off to give some review of our exploits in Slovakia to the eager guards, and I fell into a black dreamless sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Angel for inspiration and beta-ing. The answer is (finally!) yes.
> 
> Poem was lovingly borrowed from [Deltiology](http://archiveofourown.org/works/615421) by Kyrilu. If you have yet to read it, go do that right now.
> 
> An author I greatly admire told me once that she didn't like writing author's notes, because her work should speak for it's self. And, perhaps someday I will be skilled enough to be content to let my work speak for it's self, but for the time being, let me explain myself. I was apprehensive about writing this chapter the way I did, because I didn't want to portray sex as some sort of answer for trauma. And it's not, and as I said in the first note, this isn't a universal comment, it's about Sévérine, and her personal journey, and taking back her body and sexuality for herself. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
> 
> All of my research for this chapter was done from news articles and wikipedia. I didn't just pull it out my ass, but don't expect it to be 100% accurate.
> 
> Till next time, xoxo,  
> Captain Tots.


	11. My Sister's Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, there's been a lot of confusion and misinformation about Uganda and the LRA in the media within the past year or so, and I don't wish to contribute to that in any way. While I did a few hours of research for this chapter, please do not take anything in here as being absolute fact. Additionally, I have nothing against the novel, _The Last King of Scotland._ The reason Isaac dislikes it should be evident within the story.
> 
> Also, I fucked around a little (a lot) with the CraigBond timeline here. For the purposes of this story, Casino Royale takes place in 2002/2003.

for I am in love with a skeleton

on whose small bones a dress hung for a while,

on whose small skull a bit of curly hair was strung,

and what is dust I still don’t know

( _Gerald Stern, My Sister's Funeral_ )

* * *

Chapter Eleven.

“Remind me, what's going in here?”

“Sever towers. For Mister Silva's computers.”

Isaac, Kamil, Hassan, and myself had spent the better part of an afternoon cleaning out the old ballroom in the hotel, which Silva had declared as our new telecommunications center. It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and tan colored stone walls, huge windows that ran the entire height of the room, and etched columns that jutted out from the walls. The bar counter had already been ripped out and chipped up into scraps, along with all the couches and tables that had once lined the perimeter of the space. The carpet was a rich wine color, and Silva wanted it gone as soon as possible.

“Do we really,” Kamil sighed, looking at the floor, “need to rip out the carpet?”

Isaac looked personally offended that Kamil would question Silva's instructions.

“Stick that pry bar under the carpeting, or I'll stick it up your ass,” Isaac growled at Kamil.

“How 'bout I stick it up yours?” Kamil laughed. “You'd like that, wouldn't you...”

“Gentlemen,” I said, throwing my arms out with a theatrical flourish. “Is that any way to talk in front of a lady?”

All the men laughed and shook their heads.

“When did you get so classy?” Isaac teased, throwing the pry bar in Kamil's general direction.

“When did you finally notice?” I flicked the blade of my box cutter open and bent over to slice the carpet into squares.

“And the reason we need to rip out the carpet,” Isaac announced, strutting around the room to admire Hassan and I's cutting work, “is because carpet collects dust. And dust breaks computers.”

“I'll be sure to commend Mr. Silva on his attention to detail,” Kamil muttered. Isaac glared.

Kamil was the driver who had gone to Turkey with us. He was a fairly new recruit, and seemed a bit more prone to questioning Silva, perhaps due to his age or circumstance. He had messy light brown hair and a thin face with prominent cheekbones. He was probably in his thirties, but looked aged from a life of less than legal careers. From what I understood, some criminal syndicate had a hefty price on his head, and a friend of a friend had sent him in Silva's direction to stay safe. He and Isaac were close, closer since we had gone to Turkey. I was pretty sure there was something going on between them, but I could tell how uncomfortable Kamil's comments about Silva made Isaac.

“Why aren't you ripping out carpet, Isaac?” I asked. “Is supervising us too strenuous?”

“Doesn't your plastic bend that way?” Kamil teased, referring to Isaac's prosthetic leg.

“That's clever,” Isaac snapped back.

“Boys,” I sighed, trying again to break the mood.

“If the boss's sex kitten can do it, why can't...” Kamil began.

“Ooo, now you've done it. Get out! Scoundrel!” I kept my tone humorous, but I was irritated. I pointed at Kamil and then the door. “Do you think I'm joking?”

Kamil made a confused half shrugging motion and stared towards the back door of the room.

“Go on, get out. Don't make me force you.” I brandished the box cutter like a weapon and smiled, ambiguously dangerous. Kamil did that shrugging motion again, and dropped the pry bar down on the floor, before turning and walking out.

“Hassan, why don't you take a break?” I said. Hassan wasn't a very vocal sort of man. He just nodded and left, following Kamil out the door.

Once the two were safely out of earshot, I dropped down to a sitting position on the floor, and motioned for Isaac to join me.

“We should talk,” I said with a tight lipped smile.

“What do you want to talk about, princess?” Isaac joined me down on the floor.

“Kamil is an idiot.”

“Did you need to kick him out of the room to say that? I don't think his feelings are easily wounded.”

“Are you sleeping with him?” I asked, blunt.

Isaac didn't respond at all. He stared at a point above my left shoulder without moving a muscle.

“Raoul will _kill_ you if he find out...”

“Don't say that.”

“Hm?”

“It's bad luck.” Isaac was visibly upset. “Just don't say it.”

“Alright, fine. Just, tell him to keep his mouth shut. Raoul hears everything; you know that.”

“You wouldn't...” Isaac began, lower lip shaking ever so slightly.

“Tell him that Kamil is an idiot? No. But, do you honestly believe he doesn't know himself?”

Isaac nodded, slow.

“Who's more important to you anyway? Mr. Silva or Kamil?”

“Yeah,” Isaac mumbled. “Yeah, I know.”

We were quiet for a minute, maybe longer.

“Oh, and Isaac?”

“Hm?”

“The 'sex kitten' remark...”

Isaac threw his head back laughing and grinned wide as he could. The sudden change in mood was a relief, though I didn't quite appreciate him laughing at my expense.

“You were pretty...vocal, last night. As far as anyone who was on the same floor as Mr. Silva's room could tell.”

“Oh...”

Isaac kept laughing.

“I fail to see why you find this so amusing.”

“As long as he has you, I suppose the rest of us are safe,” Isaac snickered.

“What?”

“Nothing; don't worry about it, princess. Anyway, I did have something to talk to you about, aside from all this improper conversation. Mr. Silva wants me to go down to Uganda to broker a deal for him in proxy. You know more about the business side of things than I do. You interested?”

“Is it a hit?”

“No, no, no one needs to die. It's just a transfer of funds for services, that's all.”

“Why didn't Raoul ask me himself?” I questioned. Isaac shrugged.

“Look, I would just like you to come along. With me. Back home.”

I got it then. Uganda was Isaac's home, and in the same way that I needed Silva with me to face my demons, whatever was waiting for Isaac there required some emotional support.

“I'll come with you,” I said.

“Thank you,” Isaac replied. He looked around the room. “So. Want to rip up some carpet?”

* * *

Silva had his hand up my dress when I told him I wanted to go to Uganda with Isaac, which wasn't the best timing on my part.

We were in what had once been the penthouse suite of the hotel, which had been claimed as Silva's—and by extension my—bedroom. It was truly beautiful, all cream colors and warm bedsheets, fake calla lilies in delicate vases and cherry wood colored furniture. We were sitting on the couch, and Silva was sucking on my neck and trying to pull my dress up.

“Isaac,” I breathed-a poor choice of words to begin with-“wants me to go to Uganda with him. What do you think?”

Silva chuckled.

“Is now really the time to talk about this, darling?”

“He said that he's leaving tomorrow, and he was supposed to go with Kamil, but he would prefer if I went with him.”

Silva smiled at me, like I was a confused little girl.

“I told Kamil to go with Isaac for a reason.”

“I don't think that's for the best...” I began.

Silva's face went from amused to irritated.

“Are you trying to make decisions for me?”

“No, no, just...”

Silva started kissing my collarbone again. It was uncomfortable, the juxtaposition of sex and authority. I pulled away from him.

“Maybe we shouldn't have this conversation now,” I weakly commented.

“No, no. Now that we've began, why stop?”

I squirmed at his words.

“This isn't the time; you were right...”

“Shh, darling. You have my full attention now. Why do you think you should go to Uganda with Isaac rather than Kamil? Are they having a lover's spat?” Silva grinned, wicked.

I was temporarily taken aback by his knowledge of what was going on between Kamil and Isaac, but I had said it to Isaac myself. Silva knew everything which went on within his kingdom.

“Because,” I said, trying to remain confident in my words, “Isaac asked me to. I know that it's his home, and returning home is...” I paused, trying to think of the right word. “Difficult.”

Silva nodded, slow.

“Difficult, hm? Well, what am I to do with Kamil then? I can't have him wandering about all week, stirring up trouble...” I was treated to another unnerving smile.

“Send him out, “ I proposed. “Like the others that you've been sending away for training with your business partners.”

“Ah, but I'm not sure if he would return!” Silva laughed. “I suppose that means that he never belonged to us then? Oof.” Silva took a moment, tapped his fingers against the arm of the couch, like he was deep in thought.

“Kamil will go with some associates of mine in Russia,” Silva declared, after those moments of deliberation. “Which I suppose means that you and Isaac will be going to Uganda.”

“Thank you,” I sighed , wrapping my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

Silva looked at me quizzically.

“For what, darling?”

* * *

We managed to get a private flight from Cario to Uganda, courtesy of Silva's stockpile of false credit cards and almost bottomless wells of cash. The pilot understood that Isaac and I had private business, and didn't ask a single question when Isaac signed as 'Benjamin Goodman' on the dotted line. As long as the money went through, no one wanted to know what we were up to.

I was used to long flights by this point, having flown across the world within the span of a week to take care of people Silva no longer wished to deal with, or negotiating the terms of business relationships. I could get through security at any airport in the world with a smile on my face and my meticulously forged documents in hand. I was completely calm waiting in any lobby, or being scrunched into a seat in economy class. I just closed my eyes and replayed the legends of Artemis, or recited through the names of Henry V's eight wives, first in chronological order, next in alphabetical order. Because we had the entire cabin of the airplane to ourselves though, I was taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch out in our seat, which was more or less a couch. I was reading a book about Uganda which I had picked up in the airport bookstore in Cairo.

“What's that?” Isaac asked me, peering over from his side of the couch to look at the cover.

“It's called  _The Last King of Scotland_ ,” I replied. “It's about Uganda.”

Isaac pursed his lips.

“What about Uganda?”

I placed the book down on the couch, pages still open, and shrugged.

“It's about a doctor from Scotland who becomes the personal physician of the dictator.”

Isaac scoffed.

“What is that going to tell you about where we're going, hm?”

“Nothing,” I said, defensive. “It's just interesting.”

“If you want to know about Uganda,” Isaac replied, “I'm sitting right here.”

“If I wanted to ask you,” I said, peevish, “I would have asked you.” I plucked my book back up and held it in front of my eyes, not reading, just avoiding Isaac's glare.

“You like books,” Isaac snapped, “because books can't bleed. That's it, isn't it?”

“I think,” I said, throwing the book back down, “that I've seen enough that it's understandable that I would want to... avoid suffering.”

“ _You've_ seen enough, princess? You can't avoid suffering. Suffering is everywhere. And if you want to learn about my home, I will tell you about my home. But not with numbers, or dates.”

Isaac finished the sentence with an almost-snarl, his lips pulled back and eyes narrowed. My face burnt red and I tried to make myself small. I'd never seen him angry before. I must have looked rather frightened, because Isaac's expression softened. He shook his head at me and started talking once more.

“My sister and I were born a year apart. She was the same age as you. We lived in a place called Motoro, which is in the north. There was no food, or water, and my mother was sick every day. My father didn't care about her, or us. He was sick too, but he was too proud to lay down. They fought over that—she said he was too proud, he said she was too weak. I remember there was a lot of death, over cattle, you see: cattle were precious. They were providers. I think there were more guns than cows, and every week, cattle were stolen, and fought over, and killed over.

We were very young when my mother died, and soon after, the soldiers came to town. Not like the ones from the cattle raids. No, these ones had uniforms. My father, cold hearted bastard that he was must have given us up to them. I don't think they even paid him. He just wanted to be rid of us. My sister was seven and I was eight. They separated us, took her one way and me another. I'd never spent a day without her before in my life. I cried, for weeks. I told her that I would come find her. I promised her. The soldiers gave me a gun and told me I was going to learn how to use it for the glory of God. I asked where my sister was, and they told me that if I was good with the rifle, they would bring her back to me. So I became the best. But I never saw her again.”

Isaac paused for a moment and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as if he was meditating on her memory.

“When I was twelve, I stepped on a landmine on an old battlefield and lost my leg. I was left to die and found by aid workers, who picked me up, drove me to the hospital in Kampala, and left me there. I didn't want to live though. I was sick of living in a world without my sister or my gun and the ability to walk. I had nothing left. But I couldn't die... no matter how much I wanted to. I just laid in bed and kept on breathing.

When I met Mr. Silva, I was begging on the street, outside the Grand Imperial Hotel in Kampala. I was worried the police would try to chase me away, because I couldn't run. Mr. Silva was leaving the hotel when he saw me. There weren't too many white men in Kampala, and if there were any, they were usually politicians or aid workers. But, when he got closer, I could tell he wasn't either of those things. His face was bumpy under the surface—it was unnatural. I was afraid of him at first.

He asked me who I was, and I told him that I was Isaac of the Matheniko tribe, and that I had been left for dead but could not die. And he told me that we had that in common. I told him about my village, and the cattle, about my missing sister, and how my mother vanished into air before she disappeared completely, and he asked me if I would like to come work for him. He said that he was going to have to see if I had AIDS though, because of my mother's death.

I started crying, because I had been told that the wasting disease was the punishment for wanting to lie with another man in your heart, and I told Mr. Silva that I must have it, because I was guilty of sin. Mr. Silva laughed at me. He said anyone could lie with anyone and get what my mother had, and that there was nothing wrong about lying with another man or a woman or whomever. He took me to Spain and tested my blood and gave me a new leg. I was told that I was very lucky. I did not have the disease. I would live a long and healthy life, Mr. Silva said to me.”

Isaac smiled, and paused once more.

“This is what you cannot learn about life from a book. Not when you could just ask.”

“Oh...” I whispered, rendered almost speechless.

“You understand what it's like to be saved by someone. So do I. I would die for Mr. Silva without a second thought.” He looked straight at me and bit down on his lower lip. “Or for my little sister. Or even you, princess.”

I felt my eyes start to burn. Perhaps I haven't explained fully just how important Isaac was to me, how he was with me through every hit and every business transaction. When I strung some hapless two bit mafioso into an empty alley with me, Isaac was the one who stuck a gun in their face and told them to shut up if they knew what was good for them. Isaac was my partner in crime, my best friend, and the only person aside from Silva that I trusted. When both of us were at the island at the same time, we would sit around and play cards or clean guns. If either of us had been the type, I would have reached across the seat and given him a hug.

“I'm so sorry, Isaac,” I said instead.

“It's alright. Now you understand.”

Isaac and I fell silent for a few minutes.

“Well,” I laughed. “I don't want to pick the book up again now.”

We stared into space, neither of us saying a thing to each other. It wasn't uncomfortable though. We'd come to an understanding.

“Oh, I should mention,” Isaac said, after a while. “Don't worry about our business here. I know all the talking points. I'll handle it.”

“What is our business, exactly?”

“It's a transaction,” Isaac replied. “A simple transaction.”

* * *

Kampala was a city of colors. I remember being stunned by the light and energy around me. Sitting in a car, motorcycles drove in circles around us, loaded with passengers clinging onto the driver's backs. The sky was almost neon blue, dotted with skyscrapers that extended out into the clouds. There were trees everywhere, and long stretches of green space that seemed to form lakes of plants between the streets. The hotel was a gleaming white building in the center of the city's business district. Isaac smiled as we pulled in.

“It all comes full circle, doesn't it?” he said.

We paid our driver in cash, and took care of our accommodations inside. The interior of the lobby was more lavish than I expected, all stone and staircases. I stayed silent next to Isaac, as he effortlessly joked around with the clerk. He was clearly at home, conversing in Swahili and English back and forth, smiling and carrying on about the traffic and something called a boda-boda. I wondered what it was like for him to come back to this city, not as a penniless child with no hope, but as a man, with all the confidence in the world and a wallet stuffed with cash.

We got to the room and carefully unpacked our bags, checking to make sure that the guns we had concealed were undamaged. I was wearing a long green skirt and an airy black blouse. I grabbed the thigh holster from my luggage and lifted my skirt to strap it on, before tucking in my Beretta.

“Where do you think you're going?” Isaac laughed.

“It's just comforting,” I explained. “That's all.”

“So,” Isaac said, sitting down on one of the two beds in the room. “Before we have our business transaction tomorrow, I think we should go see the city.”

Tourism wasn't a hobby of mine, per say. Every visit to a city usually ended in us driving out in the middle of the night, staring out the back window to make sure no one was following us. I wanted to see Kampala in the daylight, not from the glow of street lamps, watching my back for someone my shady business had angered.

“Sure,” I said in agreement. “Where to?”

“Just around,” Isaac said. “It will be fun."

He didn't sound like he believed it.  

* * *

We left the hotel, and Isaac approached a teenage boy with a motorcycle out on the street. After talking in hushed tones for a few moments, Isaac slid a wad of American dollars into the boys hand, and took the key to his motorcycle.

“Let's go, Sévérine,” Isaac called to me, vaulting himself onto the motorcycle. The boy stuffed the cash into his shirt, looked around a few times, and ran.

“What did you say to him?” I asked, as I hopped onto the back of the bike.

“I gave him five times the value of the bike,” Isaac explained. “The cost of privacy. Now, hold on, okay?”

I was pretty nervous at this point, as Isaac had yet to tell me where we were going, or what we were really doing in Kampala. I was going to raise this as a protest, but the words were ripped out of my mouth when Isaac accelerated.

“Do you know how to drive one of these?” I yelled against the breeze. It wasn't that windy, but our speed and my sudden anxiety made it feel as if we were being beaten down by a hurricane.

Isaac accelerated again.

“Sure!” he yelled back at me. “This is how you speed up, and...” he cut off mid sentence as we weaved around a bus that was stopped in traffic. “That's how you turn!”

“How do you stop?”

“You don't!” Isaac laughed, taking another sharp turn around a vehicle. I closed my eyes. I'd survived far scarier situations, but you can't stop a car accident by shooting at it.

When I opened my eyes again, after a few painful minutes of clinging to Isaac, we were no longer in the city of colors. Rather, we were in a slum. Isaac had to slow down because of the bumpy dirt roads. I looked around and saw shacks shoved up against each other, sad eyed children wandering in the roads, and most disturbing, sewage flowing through the street. The further we drove, the more dilapidated the shacks became, and soon I saw less children outside. We stopped outside what appeared to be a random home, but Isaac seemed to recognize it.

“What is this place?” I asked him.

Isaac didn't answer for a moment, just got off the bike and propped it up against the outer wall of the shack. Then he spoke.

“It's a whorehouse. I asked the hotel clerk.”

He didn't make eye contact with me, just walked in through the door. I ran in behind him.

The inside of the shack was dark. There were a few women sitting on the floor, of various ages, dressed in miniskirts and leg warmers. They had lots of makeup on, and one was smoking a cigarette. I saw a number of vinyl curtains hanging in the back of the single room. The floor was dirt, with a few large stones embedded in the ground. I stood on a stone, with a lump growing in the back of my throat. I was terribly confused by Isaac's behavior.

He started speaking to the women, words I didn't understand. I made out a name, Esther.

The women shook their heads, and Isaac said something else to them. One pointed to her left, and made some gestures. She was giving him directions. Isaac nodded, and dug in his pocket to hand them a few dollars.

“Come on,” he said to me. “Not here.”

When we got outside, the bike was gone, despite the fact that we had the key to it. Isaac looked at the spot where they bike had been, shrugged, and started walking. I followed behind him.

“We're looking for your sister, aren't we?” I asked.

“Mhm.”

“What makes you think she's in Kampala?”

“I just know,” was the only reply he gave me.

The next shack was like the last one, the only variation being the women inside. Once again, Isaac asked for an Esther, and was told to look else where, or at least that's what I surmised from us leaving.

We did this for hours. I was tired and thirsty with sore feet, but I didn't dare complain to Isaac. He scarcely said a word to me the entire time. We just marched from house to house, asking for an Esther, and being turned away.

At one house, there was an Esther, but she was far too young to be Isaac's sister. She was the same age I was when I was sold, maybe twelve or thirteen. She stared straight at me, looked right into my eyes, and I knew that she understood who I was, how similar we were.

She was scarcely over five feet tall, with a grim, set expression. Her brown eyes were wide and were ringed with twin bruises. Her naturally curly hair had been haphazardly straightened, and was now rebelling back, sticking out at odd angles from her head. She was wearing a tattered skirt, dirty red high heels, and a bikini top.

The women in the brothel pointed at her, and said words to Isaac. They kept nodding and Isaac kept shaking his head no. Esther didn't seem to care though. The whole time, her eyes were fixed right on me. I couldn't look away. I wanted to cry, because I knew exactly what the future held for her, what the future would have held for me had Silva not saved me. I wanted to pull all the money out of Isaac's wallet and beg the women to let us take her home.

But, even if I saved this girl, there were hundreds like her. I couldn't just go around buying every prostitute in the slums out of bondage.

She knew that too. I could tell. She saw it in my eyes, that I was going to leave her there.

I felt like a traitor. I wanted to go home, back to the island, back to Silva with his hand between my legs and his mouth all over me, and me enjoying it— _traitor._

“Sévérine. Sévérine,” Isaac said, shaking me out of my trance. “Come on, she's not here. Let's go.”

It was nightfall when we stepped outside of that particular house. I was hot, and tired, and wanted to sob after that little girl looked at me. I felt so weak. I couldn't do this anymore.

“Isaac,” I said,“even if she was here...”

“Stop,” Isaac replied, abrupt. “She's here. She has to be here. I came back for her, like I told her I was going to do. If she's not here, then I'm too late.”

He stood still as a statue, looking at the vast slums which extended all around us. “Don't you think,” he said, “she has to be out here somewhere?”

“Isaac,” I said soft, “I was almost dead when Raoul saved me...”

“I let her down. I told her I was going to find her, that I was going to come back to her, and I let her down. That's why I took this mission in Kampala—I don't have the stomach for this sort of thing, but I knew if I went I would find her, and she's not here.”

“The stomach for what sort of thing?” I asked, concerned.

“If it was you. If it was you, would you forgive me?” Isaac continued, ignoring me. There were tears in his eyes, and he was having trouble speaking clearly. “If it was you I left behind... could you ever forgive me?” He started crying. “I wouldn't want you to forgive me. I wouldn't deserve it.”

I thought about the other Esther and felt responsible. It stung.

“There's nothing you could have done...” I said, but Isaac shook his head.

“I was so busy feeling sorry for myself, I never came out here and looked for her. I could have saved her.”

I realized how illogical this statement was, even though Isaac didn't. Without a leg, he wouldn't have gotten much of anywhere out into the slums, and where ever he did get to, he would have been stuck at. His sister had likely died when she was very young, and he would have missed meeting Silva for nothing. But, Isaac wasn't thinking in logical terms now.

“Isaac, stop! It wasn't your fault... you can't save everyone. And if it was me you had to leave behind, I would forgive you.”

Isaac rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Do you think she's still alive?”

I shook my head no.

“Oh, Esther,” Isaac moaned. He sat down in the dirty road and shook his head. “I knew,” he mumbled. “I always knew.”

* * *

We left Kampala the next morning, after an awkward night where Isaac laid in his own bed, his back to me, face buried in his pillow. I dreamed of Silva's eyes and arms and lips; I dreamed that he was parting my thighs with gentle hands, that he was taking his clothes off and our skin was touching like electricity, and then _she_ was there. The little girl.

I felt guilty.

Upon checking out of the hotel, we rented a Jeep and Isaac drove us out into what felt like the middle of nowhere. We stopped somewhere in the middle of the trees, off the side of the road. I never would have thought anything of it. But, there was a small house built of cinder blocks with a few cars around it.

“Please,” Isaac said to me, as he killed the engine of the car, “don't say anything, okay? No matter how tempted you may be.”

“...alright,” I agreed, apprehensive. I still had not an idea of what we were about to get ourselves into.

“And leave your gun in the car,” he added. I didn't like that, but I did as Isaac told me, for lack of any other information.

When we entered the house, a large African man with an assault rifle hanging around his neck in an olive green uniform patted the both of us down. He eyed me like he wanted to eat me, but I didn't react. I just kept myself still, like I learned to do all those years ago. Once it was clear that Isaac and I were unarmed, we were lead into the kitchen of the house, where there was an older man wearing a similar olive green uniform adorned with all sorts of patched and golden trinkets sitting at a table. His hair was graying at his sideburns, and his face was wrinkled. He appeared to be in good spirits. He was flanked on both sides by two standing men in plain uniforms, also carrying assault rifles. They were less massive than the “bouncer” whom we encountered at the door, but could certainly take the piss out of Isaac and myself if we were unarmed.

“Please, friends, sit down,” the older man said, in English, to Isaac and myself. He gestured to the chairs across the table from him. Isaac and I sat.

It was a small kitchen, like the kind you would find in any suburban house in Europe or North America. I wondered why he had chosen to have our meeting here. I didn't even know who this man was, but it was clear he had some sort of power—or just a lot of gold buttons.

“It's a dangerous world we live in, you know that, son?” the man said to Isaac. “Yesterday, a British agent blew up an Embassy in Madagascar.” He shook his head. “Isaac. Mr. Silva told me that he would be sending you in proxy.” He smirked. “Just a few years back, Raoul came to me—with half a face and a cane—begging for business. And now look. He won't even speak to me himself. How times change.”

“General Lutalo. It is an honor to meet you.”

“Skip the honorifics,” Lutalo said. “Down to business. What are you authorized to transfer?”

“Thirty million Euros, sir.”

“That's five then.”

“Five? With all due respect sir...”

“These are trained warriors, son. If I say five, you say 'yes, sir.'”

The realization of what was going on hit me like a punch to the stomach.

“I'm not leaving without ten.”

“Oh, but you will, _Isaac_. You will go home and tell Mr. Silva that if he is too cowardly to see me himself, he has no say in our negotiations.”

“I am Raoul Silva,” Isaac said, repeating my line from Turkey. “I am Raoul Silva, and I can exact all of his power. When you see me, you are seeing Mr. Silva. And Mr. Silva will not leave this house without ten men.”

There was a painfully silent pause. I was trying to avoid eye contact with the three guards, who could shoot us full of holes at any second.

“You don't need those ten men, General Lutalo. What you need are liquid assets, especially now with the American and the United Nations financing your opponents. I can transfer the funds right now, if you give me the keys to your vehicles.”

The general looked at Isaac, obviously uncomfortable being talked down to, but unable to dispute him.

“Joseph,” the general barked at the guard who had led us into the room. “Get this man the computer.”

* * *

We went back to the island with a van full of soldiers. I was sick to my stomach the entire drive to the private airstrip, which General Lutalo himself utilized. We were trafficking people. That's what we were doing. It all made sense: why Silva hadn't wanted me to go, why Isaac was so cryptic.

We got a plane which was headed straight back to the island; no stops in Russia where we would have to guide ten rebel soldiers—who had most likely been fighting since they were children like Isaac—through an airport. I was seething the entire journey back, furious at how Silva had thought it appropriate to allow people to be bought and sold.

“Doesn't this _bother you_?” I whispered to Isaac.

“Does what bother me?” he replied.

“We're buying and selling people!” I hissed in his ear so the soldiers wouldn't hear me. “This is wrong!”

“They'll have a far better life with Mr. Silva.” Isaac replied, nonplussed.

“What about the way he's been renting you all out?” I asked, referring to Silva's recent practice of having the guards work with his business allies for _training purposes_.

Isaac sighed, like I just didn't understand.

“You're thinking in the wrong terms here, princess. Mr. Silva is buying them out of Hell. He's saving them, don't you see?”

“I wonder,” I replied, stern, “what Kamil would have to say about this.”

“I don't give a fuck,” Isaac said, the curse startling me, “about what Kamil thinks. He's unimportant. I have to protect Mr. Silva. And I have to protect you.”

I was still unconvinced by Isaac's testimony. I spent the rest of the plane ride planning out in my head the grandiose speech I would deliver to Silva upon arriving back on the island.

I never did get to give it.

* * *

When we landed on the island, Isaac busied himself with getting the new soldiers set up, while I just about ran off the plane, straight into the base of operations. The elevator only ran up as far as the ballroom, so I planned on getting off there, and then taking the stairs to Silva and I's bedroom. I remember how Isaac starred at me as I ran off into the distance, probably pissed off that I wasn't helping him get the soldiers sorted out. I didn't care though. I was completely high on adrenalin, and ready to give Silva the piece of my mind I'd been rehearsing for hours.

I made it as far as the ballroom. When I got off the elevator, I saw that in our absence, the space had been converted into the telecommunications room that Silva had wanted. It was full of server towers and monitors. Silva was sitting in a single chair with his back to the elevator, and on every screen was a video clip of an older woman talking. She was speaking at some sort of press conference, with a blue screen behind her, and a podium in front of her chest. Her hair was white and short, but she still had a youthful spark to her appearance, a strength of personality that I could detect just by looking at her on the screens.

_“MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...”_

The clip was on loop. Just those few words kept playing, over and over again, across at least six computer screens. I looked at Silva, and saw that his legs were shaking.

_“MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...”_

“Raoul?” I said. Silva did not respond.

“Raoul, I need to talk to...”

“Go. Away.”

_“MI 6 will fully investigate the incident which occurred in Madagascar...”_

“What?”

Silva spun around in the chair to face me. He looked exhausted—his hair was a mess, and his eyes were bloodshot red. He scowled at me, like I was an uninvited guest he had no intentions of entertaining.

“I said, **go away.** ”

I never did ask him about the soldiers from Uganda.

* * *

  

**End Act I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the halfway point, folks! And it only took me 54,000 words! 
> 
> I published an author's commentary on No Rest thus far on my tumblr. You can read that [here.](http://overacardboardsea.tumblr.com/post/48167785186/no-rest-authors-extended-commentary-act-i) I'd love it if you took a look! 
> 
> I'm a huge fan of tropes, so I'll be publishing a character tropes sheet along with the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this story. I've gone through a lot of personal life crap in the time which I've been writing this, and the encouragement and positive feedback I've gotten from all of you has been _wonderful_ in so many ways.


	12. Letter from Hades to Persephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! As always, some pretty squicky stuff in this chapter, please mind the archive warnings.

 

Tell me losing everything is what saved you.  
Tell me you finally tasted freedom. Don’t lie.  
I see it in your eyes. Women lie to their mothers.  
Women do not know how to use their own voices  
and resort to things deeper. Don’t lie to me.  
Tell me you loved to destroy.

([Clementine von Radics](http://clementinevonradics.tumblr.com/), Letter from Hades to Persephone)

 

* * *

 

Chapter Twelve. 

“You are,” he whispered into my neck, sticky breath clinging to my skin, “so beautiful.”

It was in the Fall, I remember that. Uganda had come and gone, Silva was lost inside of himself, and I was tired. This hotel room was plain, less grandiose than I was used to by far. Something with “Inn,” in the name, breakfast served in the lobby right next to the check in desk, two prints of generic flowers mounted above the bed, everything in various shades of beige. Either our target was down on his luck, or smart.

Smart, but not lucky, I mused, fiddling with the zipper on his pants. He was maybe in his thirties, American by birth, and good looking. Short black hair, deep tan skin, stubble, easy smile. His breath smelled like too many glasses of whiskey, and it was right in my ear now.

“Do you wanna fuck me? Hmm?” His teeth grazed his bottom lip. I pulled his pants down to his ankles, noting how strained the fabric of his boxers were.

My eyes drifted to my purse, which was tossed across the top of a writing desk. In my periphery, I saw the boxers slide off.

“I got one right here, babe.” He stretched over to the nightstand, showing off his well muscled chest. A square foil package glimmered between his fingers.

“Well,” I laughed, nervous. “You came prepared.”

“Oh, always.”

We both laughed at that.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Mhm.”

He wasn't like Silva, which I should have expected. There was a lot of bravado to the act, invoking God and various other deities, hair pulling, gasping moans, and multiple repetitions of the phrase “oh, babe.” He'd forgotten the fake name I'd given him at the bar, which was good, because so had I. He was a “John,” which I only recall because of how humorous I found it. Ladies of the night and their John's.

He lasted a respectable amount of time, before letting out one final strangled “ _baaaabe”_ and rolling off onto his own pillow. I stared up at the rough white ceiling, sucking on the inside of my cheek and wondering if there was a particular significance to what I had just done. All of my marks had believed they were about to sleep with me, but he was the first with whom I actually did have sex. I was curious to see what it would be like after Silva had smudged the association between sex and slavery. He had encouraged it really, with his ramblings on “sex is power.” My life with Silva was about to spin out of control—the soldiers bought in Uganda, his sudden obsession with British intelligence. I was beginning to feel powerless over my very existence, so here I was, tugging at strings for something like what used to be.

“So,” I began. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I am **not** married,” he replied with a snorting laugh.

“Oh, no, not that. I could look the other way.” I smirked. “I was just curious—you have an American accent. What brings you to Milton Keynes?”

“Work. Her Majesty's Comm Center is right down the road. I did American internet security stuff for years. I'm pretty fucking good at it too. The Crown has me on loan from Uncle Sam for the next few months. As you can see, they've been putting me up in an estate which rivals only the Queen's.” His voice was tinged with sarcasm.

“Nonetheless, you must be something pretty special then,” I purred, feeding his drunk ego.

“People don't understand the full power of the internet yet. And it's my job to keep it that way.”

“Now, why would you want to keep that from them?”

“Because, the day the world knows just how powerful the personal computer and a basic connection is, that's the day there's a major cyber related terrorist attack.”

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You stop terrorists?”

“I don't strangle them with my bare hands, not by any means. I trace them. “

“That sounds fascinating.”

“Fascinatingly boring, perhaps,” he scoffed.

“We should be making movies about _you_. The ones who really stop the bad guys.” I was toying with him again, seeing how far I could get with flattery.

“No, really, it's boring. I mean, the cases themselves are fascinating, but the number crunching isn't anything you would want to film.”

“If it's so boring, then why do you do it?”

He grinned.

“Because, I'm the best.”

“How interesting are your cases?”

He looked around the room, as if he was afraid one of his coworkers would pop out of the bathroom door to admonish him for spreading government secrets.

“The SIS is really hot on this one character. No name, no country of origin, not even a picture. But he's been wrecking a path through the entire Eastern hemisphere. Whole slew of deaths they're chalking up to him—or her, I mean, you never know. They allegedly wiped out somewhere close to fifteen mob bosses. Which, sounds like he's doing us a favor. But, then there's about twenty-five organized crime chapters, and even a chunk of militants in Africa that we've completely lost track of. They're off the maps. Their money has disappeared. Now, I think that our mystery character here is playing emperor of the underworld. Killing off the groups that disagree with him, protecting those that do. I can't get a trace on his location. This guy is buried deep. We've been calling him Alexander around the office, after...”

“Alexander the Great,” I finished for him. “Maybe Genghis would be a more fitting choice.”

“Genghis Khan, huh? Well, I think my coworkers are pretty set in their ways. If it was up to me, we'd call him 'dead,' heh.”

I had learned enough. Without warning, I jumped off the bed to fetch my purse, stark naked.

“Hey,” he called after me, “Babe. Whatcha doing?”

“I think I heard my cellphone buzz,” I replied.

“What is it with people and cellphones these days? You miss a call, it's the end of the Goddamn world...”

“Bad habit,” I replied, plucking a small butterfly knife out of my purse. I held it flat in the palm of my hand, and turned back around, taking my time to strut across the room. He smiled at me, relaxed.

“No calls?”

“Nope.” I smiled. “Not a one.”

“Come here, babe,” he said, opening his arms wide.

I leaned on the bed, feet still on the floor, the hand concealing the knife flat against the sheets. His eyes were fixed on my breasts, of course. He rose up to pull me closer, giving me easy access to his jugular. I wrapped my left arm around his shoulders, and then pushed him into me.

“Whoa there...” he began in protest.

I flicked the knife open, and plunged it straight into his neck. He tried to scream, but I jerked it to the left, cutting his throat the entire way across. His entire body twitched, limbs flailing every which way, and eyes growing very, very wide, before suddenly slamming shut. My hands were drenched in dark red blood. There was so much of it, the bed sheets turned black and soggy. I don't remember if I was disgusted or not at that point. The entire process was terribly clinical in a way.

I walked into the bathroom and kicked at the faucet of the bathtub until I managed to get the water on. I was still naked, and I crawled under the running water. Blood poured off of my skin and ran down the drain in red ribbons. It was then that I began to feel sick. I had killed a lot of men—a lot of bad men, telling myself that if I wasn't the one to kill them, it wouldn't be long before they met their end somewhere else. But this, this had been different. He wasn't a mob boss or a drug lord. His only crime was that he was catching on to Silva.

“Consider it self defense,” Silva had told me when he explained who my target was. “He'll look innocent, right up until the moment the British intelligence swarms the island. He works on the behalf of thieves and liars—thugs who hide behind a flag. Find out how much he knows, and then terminate him... and please, my darling. Don't be neat about it.”

I got out of the bathtub, and used my foot to turn of the tap. I shook myself decently dry, and then dressed myself. John's body was limp in the bed, all the color drained from his skin.

It took me two minutes to dress myself, and call Isaac with my cheap mobile phone which would be destroyed the moment the call was over.

“I'm good,” I spoke into the phone. “Pick me up. Rear window.”

“Yes.”

He hung up. I set the phone down on the floor and ground it to a mechanical pulp under my heeled shoe, picked it back up to dispose of later, and looked around the room to make sure I'd left nothing behind.

I kicked the window open with my foot, and looked out to see the black Audi Isaac was driving come barreling around the corner. I was thankfully on the first floor, so the escape didn't require any fancy jumps or the like, just kicking the screen out and crawling through. I ran around to the side of the car and jumped into the passenger seat. Isaac sped away before the door was even closed the whole way, and I yelped.

“Careful!”

“I am careful,” he protested weakly. “England isn't a good place for us to be.”

“Why not?”

“Too many cameras. They'll have the whole country covered in a few years.”

“Do they think they'll end crime that way?”

Isaac laughed.

“I suppose they think so. All they can accomplish is making their criminals smarter.”

“All the real criminals are in the government anyway,” I replied.

“You sound like Mr. Silva.”

“Who would you rather I sound like?” I snapped.

“Calm down, Princess.” Isaac smirked. “I think it's cute.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“So, what did our guy know?”

I grimaced.

“They know about Raoul. They were trying to track him, but they couldn't get a hold on him. No name or pictures, nothing but suspicion really. But, they know he's out there.”

“Fantastic,” Isaac said, not a hint of sarcasm to his voice.

“Why is that fantastic?”

“We're sending them a message. Getting under their skin.”

“Who's skin?”

“Those criminals you and Mr. Silva are so fond of talking about.”

The humor in Isaac's voice didn't quite sit right with me.

“Isaac, do you know what happened to him?” I asked.

“No,” Isaac said. “No I don't. And I don't want you to tell me.”

“Fair enough. Do you think England is going to be a problem for us?”

“Not particularly. We want them to know that we're out there, but that's it. Keep them on their toes.” Isaac smirked and took the car around a sharp curve in the road. “You ever get sick of airplanes?” he said, like he was thinking out loud.

“It's a part of life,” I responded. “New day, new plane, new country.”

Isaac nodded.

“New day, new plane,” he repeated.

“So, what became of our men from Uganda anyway?” I asked, pressing a topic I knew that Isaac didn't want to discuss.

“Why don't you ask Mr. Silva yourself?”

“He doesn't seem to be in the mood of late.”

Isaac made a snorting noise and shook his head.

“You don't say? Of the twelve, four stayed with us.”

“And the rest?”

“Contracted off to Mr. Silva's business partners.”

“Sold, you mean?”

“I can't read you here, princess. Are you mad at Mr. Silva or are you defending him?”

I sunk down in my seat.

“I suppose I just don't like it when you disagree with me,” I replied.

“I told you, those men have a much longer lifespan with whoever Mr. Silva pawned them off to than they would have staying slaves in Africa.”

“I was hoping that they wouldn't need to be slaves at all.”

“They're not slaves anymore,” Isaac corrected me, terse. “Hell, they'll probably get pension plans, knowing the sort of operations Mr. Silva favors.”

“But they can't leave, can they?”

Isaac eyed me with a strange expression.

“Do you think you could?”

* * *

I rejoined Siva in the telecommunications room, once I had gotten back from England. Issac scurried off as soon as we had emerged from the helicopter; we had barely spoken since the conversation in the car.

Silva hadn't been himself for weeks, ever since that press conference with the silver haired woman and her grim expression. When I entered the room, he was punching at the keys of his main computer, server towers flickering behind him, monitors glowing with strings of characters.

“Sit down, would you darling?” Silva said, without facing me. I did as he requested, dragging a chair from the corner of the room over to his side. He was looking at various pictures and video clips of a blonde man whom I did not recognize. I was good at reading men from my past life in the hotel—it helped me to prepare for what was to come. This man, I could read him like open pages. He seemed rough; the way he carried himself suggested a barely restrained sort of anger or hostility. Not cruel, but defensive.

“Do you want to know who this is?” Silva asked.

“Yes,” I said, on cue.

“Double-oh agent James Bond, of MI6. The new favorite son,” he spat through teeth clenched together so tight, I thought they might crack. “He blew up an embassy in Madagascar while defying orders. Rather than being strung up by his teeth, he's still in the field, chasing down a weapons dealer in Florida. Oof.” Silva gave a heavy sigh. “I'm afraid mother's gone soft. It's terribly unlike her to allow such a naughty boy to remain in service.” He grimaced. “I do hope she's not fond of him. That would be unfortunate. _Terribly_ unfortunate. Perhaps I should inform some of my contacts of his whereabouts. Clean up mother's mess for her. She's getting older too. I do hope she still has her wits about her.”

He shook his head, physically clearing his mind.

“Who is mother?” I asked, quiet and apprehensive.

Silva pulled up the silver haired woman on the screen, shaking his head once again.

“She is the one who sold me to the Chinese.” Silva said this with no emotion, his face so serene, it was startling. “She'll have her chance to apologize to me, soon enough.”

I saw under her picture, small type. _Olivia Mansfield—M. Director of British Secret Service._

“Mr. Bond won't be a problem,” Silva said, shaking his head. “Not the slightest little problem.”

Silva flicked his hands over the keyboard for a few seconds, and pulled up a police report.

“Autopsy tells us that our friend from Milton-Keyes expired directly after coitus. Police believe it was a _crime of passion._ ” Silva gave a nasty grin. “Was it?”

I was dead silent for a moment, unsure how to deal with the question. I should have known that Silva would figure out what I had done. He knew everything which went on in our little kingdom.

“I wouldn't say there was any passion to it,” I responded, trying to keep my voice even and steady, but my shaking hands betrayed me.

“Did it feel good to kill him, my love?” Silva leaned back in his seat and smiled, contented.

“...what?”

“Did it feel good to kill him?”

“Why would it have felt good?” I asked, trying to keep my voice hollow and devoid of emotions.

“He had to pay the price for your company. In this case, death. Taking a measure of revenge, perhaps?”

“You think... that I want to kill all the men who sleep with me as punishment?”

“A black widow.”

“That's not why... I just wanted to sleep with him. I killed him because you told me to.”

“Nothing about your brutality—the slashed neck, the sheets soaked in blood—none of that had anything to do with you _enjoying_ it?”

I shook my head violently.

“I don't believe you.” The words rolled off Silva's tongue, floated out into the air, and hung there, accusing me.

“You told me....” I said, my voice shaking too now. “You wanted it to be messy. You wanted it to send a message.”

“And you passed my test, darling,” Silva said. “Anyone can kill a man. It takes talent to sleep with him first, and then slit his throat in the dark.”

I cringed, and Silva reached out and grabbed my wrists, hard enough that I could feel the skin turning red.

“Look at me,” Silva whispered. “Look at me.”

I stared straight into his eyes, mentally traced the uneven line of his jaw and the slight off kilter balance of his smile.

“You wanted to kill that man, but wanted to have fun with him first. Toying with your victims. I want you to tell me about it.”

“What is there to tell?” I asked.

Silva licked his lips and raised a single eyebrow.

“Why don't you start from when you took your clothes off?” He let go off my wrists and slid his hands down to my knees, pushed my dress up over my thighs. “I'm waiting...”

I watched in shock as he undid the belt around his own pants and slid his hand down the gap created, sighing heavily.

“I met him in the pub, where you said he would be. He had a few drinks, I had soda. We walked back to the hotel... there wasn't a lot of courtship involved, truthfully. We got inside and laid down on the bed, kissed and groped at each other for a few minutes... he was decent in bed.”

Silva took a heavy breath and laughed.

“ _Decent_ ,” he parroted back. “Was our American friend lacking?”

“He wasn't like you. No one is like you.”

Silva looked pleased.

“When did you stab him?”

“After we slept together. I told him I was getting my phone. I leaned over in the bed and slashed his jugular open. He bled out in two minutes.”

“Why did you stab him?” Silva asked.

“Because he wouldn't stop calling me 'babe,'” I said, not thinking about my answer.

Silva cackled, loud and piercing.

“Because he called you _babe_ , hm?”

I nodded, numb. I was amazed at what I had just admitted to.

“I know why you killed him,” Silva said. “Not because I told you to kill him. You killed him because he fucked you like he owned you, didn't he? So possessive and overbearing. _Babe._ ”

I cringed.

“Come here,” Silva said, gesturing to me with his other hand. I did as he told me, and slid my chair over until I was right next to him, our knees touching. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pushed me into his lap, pulling his other hand up and letting it rest on my knee.

“It feels good,” Silva whispered in my ear, as he pressed down on my knee. “It feels good to take control.” He reached up my dress and pushed aside the crotch of my underwear, smiling all the while. “I'm going to take you to bed,” he said, slow and soft. “I'm going to lay you down and spread your legs and take you apart, my darling, because only I know you. I know the way you taste, and the little sighs you make—I could pick them out from the sighs of a thousand other girls—I know how you arch your back before you come, and the feel of your delicate little nails digging into my skin. I know how to make you scream and gasp; all the places you want to be touched.” Silva ran his lips down my ear to my neck, and finished with a long, sucking kiss. I gasped and whimpered in spite of myself, as he toyed with me under my dress.

“You will never belong to anyone else,” Silva said. “Though, I encourage you allowing them to believe so. At least for a few moments.”

“You do?” I asked, trying to mask a moan with my words.

“Mmhmm.”

At that, Silva stood up, and scooped me up off the chair into a bridal carry.

“I love you, Sévérine,” he said, planting a kiss on my forehead. I remember how strangely secure I felt in that moment.

We had sex upstairs, sprawled across the giant hotel bed, where hundreds of people on expensive vacations had probably done the same thing. I pulled his hair and whimpered, just like he said I was going to. He wrapped me up in blankets when he finished up, and left me to take care of the business on the computers. I laid there, thinking about what he had said earlier.

_Did it feel good to kill him?_

Before I was fully aware of my own emotions, tears began welling up in my eyes. I couldn't breathe; I was struggling for air. I tried to get out of the bed, but I was being strangled by all the sheets I was wrapped up in. I gave up trying to untangle myself, and pushed myself off the mattress and onto the floor, sheets and all. I stumbled over to the bathroom, nearly tripping all the way there, and collapsed in front of the toilet. I was overcome by this sudden wave of nausea, like all my insides were fighting to get out. I had never felt so sick before in my life, not even when I was coming off pills, so many years ago. With my head hanging over the bowl, I went through a slideshow of every man I'd killed since I met Silva.

Cortez was a bastard, Dominik deserved more pain than I had given him, and the others were pimps and dealers, men who had it coming to them. Had it not been me, they would have met their end with someone else. And it had felt good to kill them; to get my sweet revenge on a world and a system which had abused me so. But the man from England, the American with the nice smile who said _babe_ too often, all he had done was work for the wrong people. Of course, they were all criminals, as Silva had said, and had I not taken care of him, he could have caught us soon enough.

But, it shouldn't have felt like a rush to kill him. It shouldn't have felt so good to fuck him and then dispose of him, some sort of sick little reenactment of my own childhood, with a butterfly knife and a hapless computers expert playing in my place.

I thought about the little girl in Uganda that I couldn't save, who looked at me with dark accusing eyes, and I felt like a monster.

I thought about how easily I'd let Silva own and control me; how I didn't protest when he claimed me for himself.

I thought about all the blood on the mattress, soaking in black and thick, and my complete detachment.

I couldn't keep anything in my stomach down anymore, and I cried the whole time, cried like I was dying, because in that moment, I wanted to die. I wished that Silva had left me to die in Macau, so I couldn't have gone on to become this, whatever it was that I was becoming.

And Silva, Silva himself, was he as corrupted as I was? The thought struck me and hit me like a blow to the chest. How had I not considered this until now? I'd been so lost in blind adoration, so thankful to him for rescuing me. I had been upset because of the men from Africa, despite Isaac's insistence that I was overreacting. But, I'd never thought to question his very motives.

I probably would have laid on the floor in front of the toilet all day, had I not been summoned by a ring of the telephone. Silva had taken to using the phone system to contact anyone within the house whenever they were needed, and I knew that if I did not answer, he would send a guard up here to find me, sprawled on the floor and with puffy eyes and a red face. So, I shook the blankets off, pulled myself off the floor, and plucked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Darling, we have a guest I would like you to meet in the lobby. Are you presentable?” Silva asked.

“I'll be down in just a minute,” I said weakly. If Silva noticed, he didn't make any indication of such. I put on a simple red dress, ran a brush through my hair once or twice, and took the elevator down to the bottom of our hotel. I didn't remember us ever having a visitor before here, certainly no one who came and left by their own accord.

The lobby of the hotel remained as grandiose as ever, though it felt somewhat empty. Most of the furniture was still intact, so it was littered with couches and loveseats which would never be used, stationed around fireplaces that didn't burn. The floors were marble, polished so well, that they shone like flattened pearls.

Everything was bright and glowing and empty.

Silva was seated on the couch in the center of the room, flanked by Isaac on one side and Hassan on the other. Across from him was a European man, with a security escort of his own. He had brown hair, and was unremarkable, other than his gleaming cream colored suit.

“Sévérine, this is Mr. White,” Silva said, gesturing towards the man. “And he's going to help us take care of our friend James.”


	13. Death and Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter relies somewhat heavily on the events of Casino Royale. If you need a refresher, Steven Obanno is the LRA leader from the beginning of the film. Le Chiffre loses his money, beginning the whole sequence of events that occur during the movie.

Apparently with no surprise  
To any happy flower,  
The frost beheads it at its play  
In accidental power.  
The blond assassin passes on,  
The sun proceeds unmoved  
To measure off another day  
For an approving God.

(Death and Life, Emily Dickinson)

* * *

Mr. White and Silva spoke on for a few minutes, tersely working out some sort of agreement which involved the untimely death of James Bond. I sat, projected a calm and relaxed demeanor, sitting next to Silva with my legs curled under myself. It was usually advantageous to appear as uninterested as possible, to paint myself as either the naïve girlfriend, or the assassin who only cared about a paycheck. I wasn't sure what angle Silva was playing me as, so I just yawned and fooled with my hair through the proceedings. It was best that Mr. White not understand just who I was, or what power I held. It might give him a scare.

I still felt violently ill, but I pushed my feelings of pain and regret down deep into myself where I could let them be until I was able to think again. It was a survival mechanism. There was no time to reflect upon my own morality now, not when I was staring down this man—the first to ever be let into Silva's fortress and presumably allowed to leave. There must have been something special about him, something dangerous. So I compartmentalized my guilt, put it in a little box and shoved it off to the corners of my mind, only to be opened much later—I hoped.

“We have a man in Montenegro right now,” Mr. White explained to Silva. “Le Chiffre. He has a plan to dispose of Bond rather neatly...”

“Forgive me, Mr. White, but for the generous sum of money I'm bestowing upon your organization, I think that I should have more than an assurance that your _accountant_ is going to kill a double-oh British agent.”

A wave of irritation came over Mr. White's face, but he let it pass and restored himself to calmness. I could see that he was not accustomed to his decisions being questioned.

“What do you suggest than, Mr. Silva?”

Silva placed his hand over my knee, and patted it lightly, as if I was a pet of some sort.

“Sévérine here is not meant for decoration, contrary to what you may have initially believed. She is a highly experienced assassin and spy. I trained her myself from the time she was very young.”

He then leaned in and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, affectionate but awkward, showing off for Mr. White just how pretty and talented and _his_ that I was.

“In addition to Sévérine, I will also be sending her working partner—the head of my paramilitary security, Isaac.” He gestured to Isaac, who was standing to our right, intensely staring at Mr. White's own guards. “They will eliminate Bond without any further assistance.”

“And you trust them?” Mr. White asked.

Silva laid his hand back down on my leg.

“With my life.”

* * *

I sat on the edge of Isaac's bed, as he briefed me about Quantum. Isaac's room was a reconstructed hotel guest room; all the paintings had been taken down, and the wallpaper was stripped to concrete. Isaac lived in a private room, due to his favored status, while most of the other guards lived in groups of four, with their beds shoved in where they could fit them. Isaac had a queen bed to himself, though I expected that he had company with some regularity. His closet was sparse, and full of repetition. Khaki cargo shorts, blue sweatshirts, two nice suits for undercover work, and a pair of plaid blue pajama pants. I couldn't imagine Isaac puttering around in pajamas. The thought made me smile.

Silva was still down in the main entrance room, enthralling Mr. White with tales of conquest and acquisition: men and empires, drugs and money and guns. Undoubtedly, White was eating it up and begging for more. The scope of Silva's operations was almost unheard of. He had his fingers in almost every organized crime syndicate in the Eastern hemisphere: Africa, Asia, Europe. They were all paying him out to ensure peace, because if the money stopped flowing, it would all disappear.

There was something very clearly bothering Isaac. He had an air of hostility to him the entire time we were with Silva and Mr. White. His shoulders were raised and tight, and his expression was pinched. I thought he meant to threaten White's own security, but retreating up to his own room had not calmed him at all.

“Mr. Silva hates Quantum,” Isaac said. “And therefore, as an extension, so do we.”

He spoke quickly and harsh, all of his words punctuated with an anger that I didn't understand. I nodded though, and waited for him to explain further.

“They're incompetent,” Isaac continued. “They function in high society, which is idiotic. Everyone loves a scandal, but there's nothing scandalous about organized crime. It's been around for as long as there's been a law to defy. What people love though, is watching the wealthy fall, reading about the corruption of major industries. If anyone cared about crime, well, we would be fucked, Princess. But no one cares about _crime_. They just care about order. And Quantum defies the natural order of things. There's no room for environmentalists or aristocrats in this kind of business.”

“So what's going to happen to Quantum?”

“Eventually, they're going to crack. And they'll expose half the criminal element along with them.” Isaac looked around, his eyes narrowed. “I don't know what Mr. Silva is doing getting our name mixed in with them. He's said it himself, they're going to fall, and when they do, they'll take all of their associates down too.”

“Do you think we'll be exposed then?”

“I don't know... this isn't exactly a business partnership. It's a suitcase full of unmarked bills in exchange for Mr. White putting us on a plane to Montenegro where a Quantum contact is already trying to kill of Bond.”

“Do you think he'll be successful?”

Isaac gave a little snorting laugh.

“He's an accountant. And an amphetamine user, if our intel is correct, which it always is. Mr. Silva said that he helped finance the 2001 terrorist attacks in the United States. He doesn't know how to keep a low profile, and he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. He doesn't stand a chance against Bond.”

“Do _we_ stand a chance against Bond?”

“He's a sex addict. He'll take one look at you and go to putty. You could have a dagger in his chest before he's got his pants off.”

“That's reassuring,” I said, laughing. “How did this man make it to secret agent status?”

“They're all crazed. Addicted to the thrill, booze, sex, gunfire. Can't find anyone willing to do the job who isn't.”

I nodded and looked down at the floor. I thought about killing this man, this James Bond, who had caused Silva so much pain, and I felt angry at him. But, for the first time in so long, I was apprehensive about killing someone on Silva's command. After the last death, and my sick sadistic detachment, I was growing afraid. I was afraid of my own capacity for cruelty, and I was afraid of what would happen to me if I stopped.

I imagined Bond's torso bobbing above my own naked body, his selfish grunts of pleasure, and I imagined sinking a knife through his ribs. No, it would be better to aim for the jugular. He would still have a few seconds alive to crush my throat if I tried to go for a kill by the heart. The victim's instinct when you slit their neck is to reach for it, not you.

My own violent simulations of Bond's death did not shake me. I was numb.

“Isaac, do you ever feel guilty?” I asked. It was a foolish question, to ask the child soldier who had been killing men twice his size from the moment he was handed an AK-47, who had been raised to believe that if he could strike down the most men, his sister would be given back to him; to ask a man who had drug himself out of the depths of hell as a mere boy; to ask a man who had never known a life beyond murder and war and assassination.

But Isaac looked upon me with pity. He shook his head betraying a heavy sadness.

“It's us or them.”

And then he did something that surprised me. Isaac reached out to me with his long, deep brown arms, marred with scars from a life of battle and disfigurement. He pulled me close to him, until my face was resting on his hard muscled chest, and for the second time I had known him, Isaac cried. My hair was dampened with his tears.

“What's wrong, Isaac?”

“Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.”

I tried to pull away from Isaac, but he wouldn't let me go.

“Isaac...” I breathed.

“I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

* * *

 

We went to Montenegro, on a private plane, shoved in with Mr. White and his extensive entourage. He was in the front cabin, which we weren't deemed worthy to ride in, and thus we sat in the back of the plane, surrounded by a team of mostly attractive female waitstaff, all in tight cream colored skirts.

Isaac was very nervous throughout the whole ride; I could read it on him after his breakdown. He was incredibly tense, fingers curled into tight fists, lips pursed together, his body rigid as a board, sitting straight up in the seat. The black suit he was wearing didn't fit quite right, and made him look even more strange, almost like he was a prop dummy shoved up in the seat. He knew something that I didn't, I was sure of it.

I spent the trip to Montenegro absentmindedly reading a book about Aztec mythology. It was one that Silva had become very fond of recently, for reasons I didn't understand. I had to beg and plead him to let me borrow it, and even after he agreed, he seemed somewhat resentful. The pages on the underworld had been heavily read; the corners crinkled from being turned over and over again. The two page spread on Mictecacihuatl, the Goddess of the underworld, had been marked up with pencil. The book claimed she was the inspiration for the skull motifs within the Mexican Day of the Dead. Pictures of stylized skulls had been circled, I noticed. I flipped through to Xolotl, God of death, resurrection, lightning, fire, sickness, and deformities. _Deformities_ and _resurrection_ had been circled three times each.

“What do you make of this?” I asked Isaac, flipping back to the page with the circled skulls.

“I don't know,” he sighed. “Maybe Mr. Silva is looking for some interior decorating tips.”

“What's wrong?” I asked him, my voice as low a whisper as I could make it.

Isaac looked around, making sure that the girls around us weren't paying us any mind.

“They're not telling us something,” he whispered. “I can feel it.”

“Why does Silva want Bond dead so badly?”

“You know better than I do,” Isaac replied.

“If only I understood.”

I tapped my nails down against the arm rest of my seat. They were long acrylics, painted blood red and sharpened down to a predatory point. I found them to be rather fitting. My dress was black and tight the whole way through. It had a slit on the left side which ran up to my thigh. This loosened it out so the gun strapped to my right leg wouldn't be obvious. My hair was piled up on top of my head like some kind of modern Marie Antoinette, and my eyes were rimmed in kohl to make me look older. Bond might have been hesitant if he realized I was just barely twenty at that time. Though, maybe not. All I knew about the man was that he couldn't resist a woman, and Silva wanted him to die. The first facilitated the last.

I wondered if he even knew who Silva was. Many of my targets died without understanding why. I decided that I would tell this one. I wanted to see the look on his face, to see if he knew what he had done.

Mr. White briefed us when we landed at Montenegro, a car ride away from the Casino Royale.

“Le Chiffre has no idea that you two are coming—nor should he. Avoid all contact with him. There will be a copy of the housekeeping key in your room when you check in. Use it to gain entrance to Bond's room. Le Chiffre reported that he is in a suite on the seventh floor, down the hall from himself. Your room is on the fifth, directly underneath Bond's. Once Bond is dead, you are to leave the premises and contact the number in the disposable cell phone. It's the only one in the address book.”

“Is this Le Chiffre fellow your only intelligence on the inside?” Isaac asked of Mr. White.

“Why?” White replied, his voice hiding a snarl.

“Can you trust him?”

“Get the hell off my plane.”

* * *

The Casino Royale was almost unfathomably glamorous. My escapades with Silva had taken me to every corner of the world, from the most scummy to the the most beautiful, but I was still stunned by the hotel. The exterior was gleaming white bricks, and it shone against the sun, like a monument. Isaac seemed less impressed. Had he made a comment, I knew it would have something about man's excess.

The inside was just as impressive as the exterior, filled with cream colored stone and high reaching pillars, lush colors surrounding us from the carpets and the curtains, and an army of well dressed waitstaff, tasked with continuing the illusion that the Casino was a place of magic, where enough money could buy you any comfort imaginable. I wondered if there were any prostitutes here, but shook the thought from my mind. It was time to focus on work.

Isaac checked us in with ease; I noticed that the staff here didn't ask too much of us beyond a form of payment. Then again, Le Chiffre was as much of a criminal as Isaac had said, then they were probably used to a high class clientele who didn't like being questioned.

Our room was a two bed suite, with the housekeeping key laying out on the table, just as promised. Isaac had poked around the hotel for about an hour, and found that Bond was in a poker game at the moment, along with our unseen friend, Le Chiffre. We decided that I would hide in Bond's room until he returned, and then strike, rather than wasting my time seducing him.

* * *

I slid the housekeeping key into the door, which opened with a satisfying _click_. I wasn't going to be able to seduce Bond in this manner, sneaking into his closet and then pouncing out when he returned. My plan was simple. Hide in the closet closest to the door, wait until Bond returned, and then shoot him at point-blank range, before taking off out the balcony, down two floors, and into the room Isaac would be waiting for me in. Simple. Of course, a plan so easily executed could never work.

I swung open the door, and saw a woman sitting on the bed. I had not accounted for this; our inside man was woefully under informed. Isaac had been right to not trust White—Quantum didn't know a thing about Bond's activities. She must have been the man's latest conquest, sitting in wait for him. I noted that there was a gun sitting next to her on the nightstand. I wondered if she knew how to use it.

She was tall and slender, pale skin married with dark hair that gave her an almost haunted look. She stared straight at me, and it was like she could see through me. She knew. She knew why I was there, what I was doing. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was going to speak, but she didn't. We just stared at each other, the gun metal rubbing the inside of my leg, her wide blue eyes burning me up, until finally, she just barely whispered to me.

“They're coming for him. They told me to not come back to the room.”

So she wasn't just some woman. She was someone who knew what was going on. Worse, she probably knew Mr. White, or Le Chiffre. Who else would _they_ be? Quantum had lied to us. What if she was supposed to kill me? That would be a clever trick, wouldn't it? Tell Silva that I had died in my attempt to take out Bond, never mind that they had set me up.

I felt paralyzed, as if I couldn't speak or move to turn around and run, so I just bobbed my head up and down in a nod. Isaac was right. They hadn't told us everything. This woman was going to shoot me, I could see it in her eyes. She was cornered and frightened; she'd probably been frightened long before I had shown up, and now she was going to shoot me. They were doing something to her; bribing or blackmailing. She was trying to cover up her fear with a mask of feigned strength. I knew the look.

“Who sent you?”

It took a great effort for me to speak; none of my muscles would cooperate, and I was deafened from the sound of my own voice from the pounding of my own heart, but I managed to eek out, “ _mister,”_ before she cut me off.

“Mr. White sent you,” she said, with a heavy breath. “Tell him that Bond isn't a problem. Tell him that... tell him that I'll give them all of the money. Bond won't be a problem. If they kill him though, there's going to be an investigation, and they'll find all of our plants.”

I kept staring at her, immobile. I didn't understand what she was saying, only that there was distress in her voice, muted, but still present. Did she understand who I was? I couldn't tell if this was a well orchestrated trap, or if she truly was just as in the dark as myself.

“You _have to tell him._ We can't kill Bond. Do you understand me? We can't.”

I nodded again, slow and stiff.

“You need to leave now,” she said, her voice stronger. “Go and tell White I'll give him all the money.”

I didn't move. What money was she talking about? The poker game that Bond was in? That money?

Her face twisted into a grimace, and I saw her move to the side to grab a weapon off a nightstand.

I turned around and rushed out of the room, letting the door slam behind me. She did not follow me.

I took two deep breaths before I heard gunfire.

* * *

What happened then, I still can't quite believe what terrible luck it was. The coincidence was so hideous, it felt as if it should have been planned, but by whom or what, I have no idea.

The gunfire was coming from the stairwell, a few doors down the hall from me. I knew I should have let it be; I should have returned to the room and contacted Silva to say that White had betrayed us, and Bond's escort knew we were trying to kill him. However, my curiosity, paired with a sick sense of dread got the better of me, and I rushed to the stairwell to see just what was happening. I was hoping that the sound came from Le Chiffre filling our friend Bond with bullet holes, but I knew that the inverse was more likely.

What I did not expect was to find Isaac in the stairwell, brandishing his pistol, and bleeding from his abdomen. He was backed up against the wall on the platform at the top of the stairs, and staring intently down, as if he was being pursued.

“ _Isaac,_ ” I hissed. “ _What are you_ _ **doing?**_ ”

Isaac jerked his head in my direction. His eyes widened with shock when he saw me.

“Run,” he said, his voice a complete monotone. “You need to run.”

I didn't run though. I pulled the door of the stairwell shut behind me, and pulled my gun out of it's holster through the slit in my dress. Down the stairwell, I could see two large men running towards us. They had dark skin, and were dressed in dark black suitjackets. One of them was brandishing a machete.

“There's a man here,” Isaac said, his voice ragged and gasping. I feared he had been shot in the lung. “His name is Steven Obanno, and he sold my sister.”

One of the two soldiers clamoring up the stairs pulled out his pistol. I shot him reflexively, hitting him twice above the right knee. He tried to make it up another step, but ultimately fell—close enough to me that I was able to shoot him in the head with a fair amount of accuracy, ensuring his death. The other man though, running at us with the machete, was almost up the stairs. Isaac was struggling to hold his gun up, but he managed to fire off a shot at the machete man, striking him in the stomach. He didn't drop though, and took a swing at Isaac with the giant knife.

I had four bullets left, and I fired all of them off, without even aiming. I was blinded by rage and fear, and I emptied the clip into the man. It struck me, as I heard the empty click of the gun, that he was probably wearing body armor. All we had managed to do was break his ribs; painful, but certainly not lethal. He was angry and in pain, and had succeeded in cutting a great gash in Isaac's arm. Next time, he would probably cut it off.

I had lost all of my calm, assassins demeanor. I was terrified and enraged. He was facing Isaac, about to take another swing at him, so I jumped onto his back and hung my arms around his neck tight enough to cut off his air supply.

It's incredibly difficult to actually strangle someone who _really_ doesn't want to be strangled, particularly a man two or three times your size. All I was doing was buying us time.

“Knees!” I yelled to Isaac. “Shoot him in the knees!”

Isaac's first shot missed. I didn't know how many bullets he had left. The man was thrashing about, trying to shake me off. Isaac shot again. He missed, and the bullet grazed my foot. I yelped in pain, and fell off the man, on to the hard concrete floor. I'd never been so convinced in my life that I was going to die—not when I was being attacked by the trafficker Dominick, not when I dodged bullets in Turkey or negotiated drug sales in China—never had I been so convinced that I was about to die. The machete was over my neck, I was bleeding all over the floor, rolling about like a fish out of water, trying to dodge the fatal blow I knew was coming.

Isaac ran at the man now, and slammed into him with all his strength. He wasn't as big, and he wasn't as fast, but he was on fire with anger. Isaac threw him up against the wall, and held his gun to the man's head.

“Where is Steven Obanno? Why is he hear?” Isaac yelled, as much as he could, with his raspy and weak voice. “Drop the machete. **Drop it.** ”

“ Le Chiffre...” the man muttered. “Stole our money.”

“I don't give a fuck about Le Chiffre,” Isaac said. He fired his last two shots into the man's head. He fell, limp to the ground.

“Oh...” I breathed, gasping in pain. “Oh God...”

“Bastards,” Isaac said. He reached towards the wound in his chest with his injured arm and cringed. “I'm going to pass out from shock soon.”

“We need to get out of here. We need to get out of here, right now. White set us up.”

Isaac and I held onto each other and limped down the stairs, trying desperately to keep our balance. Blood was leaking out of my shoe. Isaac took the jacket off of the machete man, and put it on over his own, which had been cut and stained with blood. I cut off a piece of the man's tie with the knife and tied it around my foot. Good enough.

“They're going to find me,” Isaac said. “Obanno sent them after me, when I saw him...”

“How do you know it was him?” I asked.

“I've seen that man's face in my dreams for years. He's gotten older, but he's Obanno. He looked right at me when I said his name.”

We hobbled the whole way down the stairs, to the emergency exit. Most of them had a five second grace period before they set off an actual alarm, and Isaac and I took advantage of it. We rushed out the door, both at once, falling out into the back of the staff parking lot. There was an empty catering van, idling by a service door. I saw our exit vehicle, and nodded to Isaac.

“Can you drive?” I asked.

“I don't think so,” Isaac replied.

“I can learn.”

* * *

 

I was asleep on a helicopter three hours after the van ran out of gas, somewhere along the countryside in Albania. Isaac was still breathing, unevenly but breathing nonetheless. He had survived worse. We were taken back to the island, where we were to explain to Silva _just what exactly went wrong_ as soon as we awoke. I wasn't nervous yet, perhaps I was too elated to be alive to be nervous. Silva and I trusted each other, anyway. The thought of fearing him seemed absurd. I wasn't fully aware of the things which had been conspiring around me, things that were going to come to light with a violence.

Isaac and I were summoned by our phones to come downstairs to the main parlor to speak to Silva. It was the same room where we had met Mr. White, which seemed fitting. I went down to Isaac's room, where he was waiting for me outside his door. He looked ill, which was reasonable, seeing as he had been grazed by a bullet to the chest—not shot in the lung, as I had feared—and lost a considerable amount of blood from his arm. We were both significantly beat up, but Isaac was more than just tired. He was scared.

“Whatever happens,” Isaac whispered to me, as we walked along to the elevator, “don't argue.”

I didn't understand why I would have to argue anything.

* * *

 

We were back in the main lobby, sitting across from Silva. The space was arranged like a living room, with Isaac and I on a couch, facing a coffee table and the double doors which lead off to unused areas of the hotel. Silva was sitting to our right, dressed in a formal dinner jacket over his usual black shirt. I wondered if we were expecting any other strange guests.

Silva was in an exceptionally poor mood, and his anger was focused all on Isaac, which made me squirm with discomfort.

“Explain to me,” he said, voice full of barely contained aggression, “why Bond is still alive?”

“Mr. White lied to us,” I answered for Isaac, frightened by Silva's anger. “I went to kill Bond, and there was a woman waiting for me in his room who knew who I was. She was working for White. She offered to pay me for Bond's life, and then threatened to shoot me.”

“Ahh,” Silva said, with a raise of his eyebrows. “She _threatened_ to shoot you, did she?”

I gave a grim nod in response.

“So, how did both of you manage to be shot?”

Isaac made some sort of noise, as if he was about to speak, but Silva held his palm up to silence him.

“Sévérine. How did both of you manage to be shot?”

“I left Bond's room, and I heard gunfire coming from the stairwell. I thought it was Bond, so I ran to see. But, it was Isaac. He was being shot at by two African men, who were chasing him up the stairs. I didn't know what was going on, so I shot back at them... there was a violent fight, and both Isaac and myself were injured. We managed to kill both of them, but Isaac was seriously hurt. Before the last man died, he said Le Chiffre had taken their money. We left the casino in a stolen catering van, which I drove as far as I could before we ran out of gas. Isaac passed out from blood loss, and I was unable to ask him what happened before I found him.”

Silva nodded. He was processing the facts like one of his own computers, piecing together what happened, and the blanks where I must have left out information.

“Isaac. As you were so eager to explain yourself. Please.”

Isaac painfully stuttered through the events that led him to the stairwell.

“I was scouting out Le Chiffre's room to see if he was there or at the poker game along with Bond. I was worried about Le Chiffre being of interference to us. I wanted to make sure he was where he was supposed to be. When I entered the room with the maintenance card, I saw four men in the room, and I recognized the leader as being Steven Obanno, of the Lord's Resistance Army... I knew it was him, right away. He stole my sister. I couldn't ever forget what he did. That face. Never. I yelled his name and he stared right at me. He couldn't recognize me apart from all the other hundreds of children he must have kidnapped from their homes. But it was his name... and in that moment, I just couldn't keep my composure. I didn't know how to. I rushed after him, into the room. One of his guards attacked me, and they tossed me into the stairwell. It was stupid. I made an extreme error in judgment. There were four of them, and one of me.”

Silva was displeased with his explanation, I remember. Isaac looked terrified.

“Perhaps,” Silva said, “had you left the room instead of staging some inane attack you had no hope of winning by yourself, you could have killed Bond. But, Bond lives. Le Chiffre and your friend Obanno are dead, if that's any consolation to you.”

Isaac nodded.

“It is of great consolation to me that Obanno is dead.”

“You could have killed Sévérine with your foolishness,” Silva barked, suddenly extremely angry. Isaac and I both shrunk back. “Then you would have two dead girls on your conscious—tell me, how would that feel? Letting _everyone down._ ” Silva smiled, despite the implications of his words. “We had a deal. And you broke it. Spectacularly, I might add. Not only did you fail to kill Bond, you almost jeopardized our entire operation.”

“Mr. White lied though...” I chimed in, trying to defend Isaac.

“Stop. Stop talking,” Silva ordered me. He turned again to Isaac. “Do you know how much _pain_ you've caused me, Isaac?”

“I understand sir, and I deeply, deeply regret my rash actions...”

“No, I don't think you do understand how much pain you've caused. Bond being alive hurts as if my lover were dead.”

I felt a sudden cold pass over the room. Isaac sounded like he was going to cry. I was petrified, after Isaac's breakdown, saying he would never let anything happen to me.

Silva wouldn't hurt me, so I thought.

And he didn't, not on that occasion. Rather, he clapped his hands together once, and two guards with names I do not recall, stepped into the room through the double doors. They were holding onto Kamil's arms. He himself had been handcuffed and blindfolded.

“We had an agreement,” Silva said to Isaac. “If you killed Bond, I would forgive your lover for his attempts at betrayal.”

I was stunned. Everything made terrible, terrible sense now. Kamil, who was always questioning Silva's authority, had done something to seriously offend him. And Isaac knew that Kamil was going to be, at the very least, unceremoniously thrown off the island, never for them to meet again. Thus, he was so horrified at the prospect of anything happening to me—I was all he had left. The realization hit me like a punch to the stomach.

Even worse, Isaac had bartered for Kamil's life, and failed to hold up his end of the deal.

Silva made a gesture toward the guards holding Kamil captive. They dragged him over to us, so he was sitting just a few yards away. I realized that his kneecaps had been broken. Silva stood up, and gestured for Isaac to do the same. He pulled a gun out of his suit jacket, and handed it to Isaac. He had a second one in his pocket, which he held to Isaac's head.

“Shoot him, Isaac,” Silva ordered, his lips right against Isaac's ear.

“ _No.”_

“If you don't shoot him, who's going to protect Sévérine?”

Isaac's face twisted into the most pained expression I have ever seen. I could read years of loss on his face; his sister, his home, his leg, his trust in Silva, and now Kamil.

“Okay,” Isaac whispered.

Isaac fired, and Kamil dropped to the floor, with half of his face missing.     


End file.
